


by such slight ligaments

by thedeathchamber



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Anal Sex, Bottom Louis, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Insecure Louis, M/M, Romance, Sub Louis Tomlinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25310968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeathchamber/pseuds/thedeathchamber
Summary: A late night visit to a patient sets off a series of events that will turn Louis' world upside down.... Here there be monsters.
Relationships: Henry Cavill/Louis Tomlinson, referenced Gigi Hadid/Zayn Malik
Comments: 25
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to me that I hadn't written something plot- rather than character- driven in... a while, and decided it was about time. 
> 
> [Liz](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/holdingthornsandroses) said '19th century' and sold me - and then some! (I blame her for everything I now know about Henry Cavill) - on louvill, and this happened. Thank you for all your encouragement on this fic, even without knowing what exactly you were cheering on, haha. I really hope it doesn't disappoint after all!
> 
> Also thank you [Kaila](https://lalalouie.tumblr.com/) for reading 27K on demand when I started freaking out this was a horrible mess last night!
> 
> And thank you SO much to everyone who has read and left kudos or the most wonderful comments, or even sent messages on Tumblr, on my fics. I shamefully don't always get around to replying or take an age to do so, but I do read and cherish every one, and they honestly mean so much. Thank you!!!
> 
> So, this fic has less angst than my usual and a bit more action - hoping it's decent enough, and someone might enjoy it! Thanks again for reading! Feel free to leave some constructive criticism?
> 
> -
> 
> [Tumblr post.](https://louehvolution.tumblr.com/post/623907545589891072/by-such-slight-ligaments-pairing-henry)
> 
> Liz, who inspired this fic, made the most amazing [gif set](https://holdingthornsandroses.tumblr.com/post/626717641621569536/fic-rec-by-such-slight-ligaments-by) and [gif moodboard](https://holdingthornsandroses.tumblr.com/post/627628100988108800/fic-rec-by-such-slight-ligaments-by)! Thank you so much!

The woman waiting at the door for him is a restless, indistinct figure until he comes close and the dim light coming from inside the house reveals her pale face. A single glance at Louis is enough for her to usher him into her home, clutching the worn shawl around her shoulders as she calls out: “Andrew! Andrew! The doctor is come.”

A thickset man in a stained shirt and braces greets him in the drawing room, thrusting out his hand for a handshake. “Andrew Rice, sir.”

His hand is hot and damp, and Louis has to resist the urge to wipe his own palm afterwards. “Louis Tomlinson,” he introduces himself. “I came as quick as I could—I understand it is your brother who has taken ill?”

“Yes, Abel. He’s—Be still, Sophie!” Andrew snaps at the woman, putting a stop to her nervous pacing around the room. “This here’s a real doctor now, he’ll set Abel to rights.”

Louis frowns as he shrugs out of his overcoat and hands it to Sophie with a distracted thank you. “I will do all I can, Mr Rice. But if I should be able to do more for your brother than Miss Pinnock, it will be due only to the difference in our experience, not our sex.” Picking up his medical bag again, he meets Andrew’s incredulous, contemptous expression resolutely. “Now show me to Abel.”

Though he seems far from convinced or intimated, Andrew does not argue, but leads Louis into a second room. The contrast in temperature gives him a shock: it’s boiling hot, a coal stove leaking smoke into the bedroom so that it is shrouded in gloom despite the oil lamps. 

Face flushed and glistening with sweat, Leigh-Anne Pinnock jumps to her feet when she catches sight of Louis as he steps around Andrew’s larger frame. “He was so cold,” she explains at his questioning glance, her voice hollow. “So cold. Even now—”

Louis approaches the patient on the bed. Despite the urgency of Leigh-Anne’s summons he had not expected to find his condition so deteriorated. The man is in his thirties, and of a strong constitution, yet all the vigor seems drained from him. 

Feeling eyes on him, he lifts his gaze to the couple at the door. “If you will please wait outside while I examine him.”

With a solemn nod, Sophie retreats. Andrew hesitates, but after a second allows her to pull him out of the room. 

“How long has he been like this?” Louis asks Leigh-Anne the moment the door closes behind them, as he reaches inside his bag. 

“Three hours. And nothing I’ve done has made any difference to his condition.”

Louis examines the man with a close eye: there is no unnatural swelling, no lumps, or indications of internal bleeding—yet his pulse is weak and racing, and his limbs cold, like one who has lost too much blood. 

“Has he spoken?” he asks as he lifts Abel’s eyelids to reveal his eyes completely rolled back in his head. His reflexes are normal.

“Before I got here. By all accounts lucid… though in a strange mood. He has not roused since, however.”

Louis’ forehead wrinkles in thought. “You cleansed his stomach and bowels?”

“And got him to take some watered gin.” Pursing her lips, Leigh-Anne takes a deep breath. “But there’s something you must see.”

Louis straightens, looking at her in surprise. “What is it?”

Gripping the man’s arm and holding it outstretched, she rolls back the shirt sleeve to expose his forearm. The map of his veins is visible against his waxen skin, as though they had been injected with black ink, and spread from there like an unnatural bruise. 

“What the—” Louis had lifted his shirt to palpate his stomach and reached under to check for lumps in his armpits, but had opted not to remove his shirt, to keep him warm. He wrenches the sleeve up as high as it can go now, following the black until it fades out toward his armpit. “There are times when blood will spill under the skin with no injury, but I’ve never seen anything like this,” he murmurs, inspecting the black lines and bruising with careful fingers. “Pass me the letting bowl, and the smallest scalpel, please?”

They change positions around the bed, so that Louis can cut open one of the veins on the affected arm for a blood letting. The blood is slow to come, dripping unusually slow onto the metal bowl, where it pools thick and black in the dim light. Louis holds the bowl up close to his eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like this…” he repeats absently. 

“Could it be… some kind of poison?” Leigh-Anne asks.

“Maybe.” He looks back at the man on the bed, who has not stirred during the whole procedure. “But this man is a mill hand… who could possibly—?”

A timid knock at the door interrupts them, though Sophie peeks in without waiting for a response. “Sir—and Miss—is there aught to be done? My brother-in-law was not a godly man, but it may be that he would care to speak to our pastor…” 

Louis exchanges a grim glance with Leigh-Anne; it does not seem certain that Abel will ever wake again. “I have some questions for you, Mrs Rice, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

“See if he will not swallow some more spirits. And then come out—you need some air,” he instructs Leigh-Anne, with a parting, comforting squeeze to her elbow.

He breathes in deep of the lighter air as he steps out into the hall, and once in the drawing room accepts a cup of watered beer to moisten his mouth. “Miss Pinnock tells me Abel was in a swoon when she was called into see him. Tell me about how he was before—it’s late, but he was not abed, I take it.”

“No. He came home late—” Andrew begins.

“He had been missing for days before that,” Sophie interrupts, meeting her husband’s warning glare with one of her own.

“Missing?” Louis prompts.

“We had not seen him for three days,” Andrew admits with obvious reluctance. “Last night he came home. He seemed… strange.”

“Strange how?” 

“He seemed drunk,” Sophie supplies. “Which is unlike him.”

“He likes a good laugh, my brother, but not so much the drink.” 

“Did he complain of any pain, any unusual feelings?”

“No. Well. Yes. He spoke of a terrible thirst.” 

Sophie gestures at a ceramic pitcher on the mantelpiece. “He must have had four of them, and still he said his mouth was burning him.”

Louis hums, fidgeting with the chain of his pocket watch. “You gave him no medicine, or anything to eat?”

“No, sir, he could not abide even the smell of any food.”

“I see.”

“What is it, then?” Andrew demands. “What ails him?”

“It could be... an inflammation in the brain, or a… disturbance in his blood. These sometimes come about suddenly, with no warning.” Louis twists two fingers of his right hand in a nervous gesture, avoiding direct eye contact. It is rare he finds himself completely at a loss.

“Will he be cured?” 

“I will do all I can, but—” 

“Professor Tomlinson! Sir!” 

At Leigh-Anne’s shout Louis rushes back to the bedroom, where he is shocked to find Abel astir in the bed, groaning in distress. 

“What’s happening to him?” Andrew shouts, trying to shoulder past Louis toward his brother. 

“Please, stay back—”

“He wouldn’t take the gin, so I gave him a bit of ginger root—a thin slice. He was chewing, and then—” Leigh-Anne tells Louis, her voice shaking.

Louis checks the man’s pulse at his throat, and then the stiffness of his neck. When his fingers come back wet, he expects the clear fluid that fills the brain, perhaps muddied with blood or pus—instead it is the same black subtance as when they had tried blood letting. It’s coming out of his ears. 

“He is dying!” Sophie gasps, when black trickles from his open mouth, and gathers at the corners of his eyes until it spills over. 

As Louis wipes the blood on his face with a cloth, Abel's eyes snap open—looking straight at him. Except—his eyes are completely black, iris and sclera blending seamlessly.   
He recoils when the man snatches at him without warning, his grip bruising where he holds onto Louis’ right wrist, as strong as rigor mortis. The searing heat at the point of contact lingers a few seconds after Abel lets go, collapsing back onto the bed, lifeless. 

“Do something—” Andrew chokes out. “My brother—” 

Louis doesn’t look away from his patient as he takes in the last, rattling breaths. He does not have the faintest idea what to do. “I'm sorry, I—there is nothing I can do.”

When Abel falls silent a minute later, Louis once again holds two fingers under his jaw, though there is no doubt. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

“My brother.” Andrew staggers forward and falls to his knees beside the bed, head bowed. 

“I'm sorry, he’s gone.” 

Rubbing his temples against an incipient headache, Louis frowns at the unexpected pain in his hand radiating from his wrist—Abel’s grip had been impossibly strong, but he is astonished to discover faint bruising already visible on his arm. 

At the rap of knuckles on the door frame, he turns around, straightening his clothes with a quick tug.

“Louis—Professor Tomlinson?” Leigh-Anne hesitates before entering the kitchen, where Louis had taken refuge. It is rare for family or friends to find comfort in whoever had—as they saw it—let their loved one die. And it is only made worse when he has no answers to their questions. 

For a moment they look at each other in silence, acknowledging their failure. Then Louis straightens his back, summoning some animation.

“You know ‘Louis’ is fine, Leigh-Anne,” he says with a faint smile, flexing his hand before reaching for his pocketwatch—it’s nearly one. “And you’re so close to graduating. Or should I go back to addressing you as Miss Pinnock?” he teases.

“Please don’t.” Leigh-Anne musters a wan smile of her own. “Point taken.” 

“Mrs Rice took the laudanum?” Louis asks, aware of the silence throughout the house.

“Yes. And Mr Rice has agreed to let us take the body for study.”

Louis had examined the remains while Leigh-Anne spoke to the family, but he is interested in performing a thorough post mortem, and consulting with his colleagues at the college. “The carrier has been sent for to remove the body?”

“Yes. They shouldn’t be long. Though they wondered that we could not wait till morning.”

“Hm. No use in delaying it. Thank you.” With Andrew in the next room, he chooses not to mention he would rather not risk any tampering or spoiling of the body. Louis points at the gin on the table. “Have a drop, and then head on home, get some rest. I will wait.”

“Are you sure?” Though her shoulders are rounded with fatigue, there is no question that Leigh-Anne will not leave unless he insists on it. 

“Quite sure.” Louis reaches for the gin bottle to pour her out a thimbleful. “Go, darling. Before it gets any later.”

Reluctant to sit in a room still suffocatingly hot and reeking of death, Louis waits alone in the kitchen, mulling over Abel’s death. Mr Rice is the one to fetch him when the carrier arrives, his manner subdued, diminished in the shock of his grief.

“Thank you for allowing us to take him, Mr Rice.” Louis reaches up to pat his shoulder sympathetically. “It is through such study that we advance our knowledge and understanding of people and their illnesses, and how to treat them.”

Andrew inclines his head, but stops him with a hand on his forearm before before he can leave the room. “Three coppers, the lady… doctor… said,” he mutters, gaze fixed on the floor.

“Sure,” Unperturbed, Louis reaches for his coin purse. It is not an uncommon practice, and he will not begrudge them a few coins in exchange for ‘donating’ the remains—even less with the long cold months ahead.

Out in the drawing room, Andrew glances at the door behind which lies his brother, vacillating. But in the end he takes his leave after a perfunctory handshake.

Louis opens the door to the bedroom to find a man bent over the body on the bed, the sheet that was covering it pulled down to his feet.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

The man takes a step back, hands raised with his palms up. “Pardon, sir, I meant nothing by it.”

With a noncommittal hum, Louis approaches the deathbed. He is familiar with the fascination death holds for some. Abel looks the same in any case: washed clean of the traces of black blood, though the covers are spotted with it. 

“How’d he die?” 

Louis looks up at the carrier, only to find himself momentarily bereft of speech: he is a handsome man, in spite of a rather unkempt appearance; his strong, masculine features give him the look of a Roman conqueror’s statue come to life. 

“An imbalance in the body’s functions,” he replies, collecting himself. 

“And what caused that?” 

Louis starts—he had not noticed another person in the room. Standing in front of the closet: a young man in trousers too short for his long legs, and a threadbare sack coat, the pockets bulging oddly.

“I’ll beg you to excuse Smith, sir, he’s new and hasn’t learned his place yet.” Though his tone is light, the man’s eyes cut to his companion with impatience. There must be ten years between them, but it is not only age and superior physicality that give him an air of authority.

“It’s alright.” Louis offers Smith a wry smile. “It is no a crime to be curious. But I’m afraid I don’t have an answer… yet.” 

However he is drawn immediately back to the other man, who meets his gaze with eyes a piercing blue—darker and purer than Louis’ own, which change hue with his surroundings. 

“I’ve not met a great many doctors willing to admit they don’t have all the answers.”

“Please do not think it only arrogance, it is frequently only to preserve the trust our patients have in our ability to help them.”

The corners of his mouth quirk, black whiskers twitching. “Then I will imagine all doctors to be of the same character as… Mr Tomlinson, is it?”

Louis cannot help but bow his head, feeling himself mocked. “It is. And _your_ name, sir?” he asks, an edge in his voice. 

“Kent.” He does not take his eyes off Louis, and his expression softens. “And I meant no offense.”

With a half nod of acknowledgement, Louis retrieves his bag. “It’s getting late. Shall I hold the door for you and Mr Smith to carry out Mr Rice?”

“Appreciate that,” Kent replies, signalling at Smith to join him in order to move the body onto the stretcher. 

The street is dark and deserted at the late hour, an almost imperceptible drizzle shimmering in the dim moonlight. Shivering despite his overcoat, Louis watches them load the corpse into the wagon, Kent seeming not to feel the weight although Mr Rice was both tall and hefty. After making sure the stretcher is secure, he hops down from the wagon with ease, and tips his felt hat at Louis.

Worried he might have been caught ogling, Louis fixes his damp hair self consciously, following the movement to tug at the ends that stick out over his collar. He wears his hair longer than is fashionable, and had forgotten his own top hat at home in his haste. 

Though Louis cannot make out his expression in the gloom, he can feel Kent staring at him, before heading over to the front of the wagon.

“To the medical college, is it?” he asks.

Louis follows him. “The Female Medical College, by Harrison Avenue, yes. I’ll ride with you, if that’s alright.”

Kent turns to him, head cocked to the side. “You want to ride with us?”

“Mhm. I need to sign the body into the morgue anyway.” 

He considers Louis for a moment, scratching at his beard, before shrugging. “Alright. Smith, get in the back,” he instructs his workmate. “You can keep Mr Rice company.”

Rather than complain, Smith stands up straigher, nodding eagerly. “I can do that.” 

While after years of medical practice Louis has got better at schooling his expression, he slips up all too often when he isn’t working. Kent clearly reads his confusion, because he chuckles even as he offers his arm to Louis to help him onto the box seat—another surprise, and one that makes him blush in spite of himself. “He’s new, as I said, eager to follow orders.”

Louis breathes out a faint laugh as he climbs onto the seat, holding onto Kent’s arm. “Admirable commitment to the job.”

Kent’s grin is a flash of white, his canines uncommonly sharp. “A must for everyone in this business. The undertaking business,” he clarifies unnecessarily, tugging on a pair of worn leather gloves.

“Right. I’m sure,” Louis replies with good natured scepticism. 

Kent only chuckles and goes to check on the horses before taking his place in the driver’s seat. 

“In any case, he’ll be warmer than us. Though—” Reaching under the seat he pulls out a scratchy wool blanket, which he hands over to Louis. “I do have a blanket for you.”

“Oh, it’s fine—” Louis says, even though he’s tense and shivering from the cold. “Or at least we must share.”

Kent sits with his legs spread wide apart, so that their knees are pressed up together, and Louis can feel the heat where their thighs brush. “Take the blanket, will you, sweetheart—I don’t want to end up with two stiffs instead of one.”

Flushing, Louis tugs the blanket back, keeping his face averted as he spreads it over his lap. “Thank you,” he mutters.

Kent chuckles, and Louis doesn’t think he’s imagining how he presses his leg more firmly against Louis’. “You’re welcome.”

Looking out into the darkness as they make their way to the college, he ponders on the case: Mr Rice’s unexplained absence and unusual behavior, and the strangeness of his death. 

“You seem preoccupied, Mr Tomlinson.”

“Oh.” Breaking out of his reverie, Louis automatically reaches up to fuss with his fringe. “A... difficult case… A man in his prime, healthy…” he trails off, shaking his head. 

“That's the way of it, sometimes, isn’t it? God's will?”

“Hm. Even God leaves foot prints when he dabbles in human affairs,” Louis counters as diplomatically as he is able, studiously rearranging the blanket. “There is no invisible illness, only an inattentive physician, or a lack of proper instruments.” 

Kent looks at him sidelong, his moustache twitching. “A man of science through and through, Mr Tomlinson?” 

“Well, in all honesty… yes,” he admits. 

“I am not a religious man myself, but, on my part, I believe perhaps there may be things… beyond God and science.”

Louis considers him with some surprise. “There certainly seems to be more to _you_ than meets the eye, Mr Kent.”

Kent’s grin holds his attention for far too long. “Oh no, sir, only too much time to think… too long among the dead.” 

“Funny,” Louis says with a breath of laughter, even as he rolls his eyes. “Is the number of jokes about dead people proportionate to the time you’ve been in the business then?”

He can’t help but be gratified at Kent’s wheezing laughter. “Perhaps. It’s been a number of years,” he concedes. His smile turns roguish as they come a stop and he meets his eyes. “But rarely has it led to such pleasurable company as tonight.” 

Blushing, Louis ducks his head. “I'm not certain how much store to put by that, if your standard is the deceased, Kent,” he manages, as he starts folding the blanket.

“Living or dead, it's been a pleasure, Mr Tomlinson,” Kent laughs. Hopping down from the seat, he goes around to his side, pulling off his right hand glove as he goes. “Let me help you down.” 

“It's quite alright,” Louis replies, but he cannot bring himself to refuse to take his hand, which dwarfs his own. 

Kent stands too close, so that when Louis steps onto the ground they are toe to toe. Instead of letting go immediately, he gives his fingers a light squeeze, and when Louis looks up at him, he holds his gaze.

Flustered, after a second Louis stammers out a thank you, and hurries to fix his hair in a compulsive movement the moment his hand is free.

“Don’t forget your bag,” Kent says with a raised eyebrow and a teasing smile, stepping back. 

Louis turns to get his bag from the seat, his face warm. “No, I’ve got it.” 

“Well. Should we get moving… Kent?” Smith pipes up, revealing himself leaning on the side of the wagon. 

“So eager, you see.” Kent offers Louis a wink, and a light touch to his elbow before heading to the back. “We’ll follow you, Mr Tomlinson.”

Walking in front of the carriers burdened with the stretcher, knowing he has Kent’s eyes on him, Louis is almost tempted to divest himself of his overcoat to show himself his best advantage. But the chill is still in his bones, and it seems a pointless effort—their flirtation cannot lead to anything… even if Kent lingers once the job is done. 

His obvious hesitance to leave prompts Louis into recklessness. 

“You know where to find me,” he blurts out as they shake hands goodbye before the morgue entrance.

Kent freezes, and Louis’ hand spasms in his firm grip as his face heats with humiliation—Kent’s expression turns rueful, and though he makes no answer but a short bow, it speaks clear enough.

  
A thorough examination of the body provides a welcome distraction, even if it does not yield any further clues as to the cause of death, anything that can explain the peculiarities: from his behavior to the strange bruising, or the quality of his blood. 

The college halls are echoing and dark when he leaves after a couple of hours, and his walk home, usually a pleasant stroll, is a miserable affair due to the damp and the cold. He has not rung the bell pull once before the door swings open. 

“What possessed you to walk at this hour?” his valet asks, disapproving, divining the truth with a single glance. 

“Some tea first, Oli, if you please,” Louis begs, resisting Oli’s efforts to help him out of his overcoat. “I’m so cold.”

Sighing, Oli shepherds him to the drawing room, dragging the armchair as close to the fire as is safe before pushing him into it. 

While he waits for the tea Louis toes off his shoes, and extends his socked, damp feet toward the fire. In spite of the cold and the tiredness, he is itching to look through a couple of journals and books from his library to research on Abel’s condition. 

In a few minutes Oli returns, setting on the side table a tray laden not only with tea but buttered toast and biscuits. “You rushed out without finishing your dinner,” he explains at Louis’ questioning glance, while stoking the fire. “Might as well eat something.”

“I suppose so.” Louis takes a long sip of his tea before holding the cup—a delicate, rose patterned affair—close with both hands, offering Oli a small smile. “Thank you.”

Oli nudges the plate of toast toward him. “Don’t torment yourself, you did all you could,” he says baldly, tone matter of fact as always.

Louis makes an amused noise around a mouthful of biscuit. “You know me too well.” Sobering, the rest of his biscuit halfway to his mouth, he shakes his head, staring into the fireplace. “Alas, I could do nothing. It was… a most peculiar case. Why, even the carrier was… unusual.” 

Oli hums. “Either way, it’s done. You should get some rest.”

“I don’t know if I'll be able to sleep tonight,” Louis confesses, setting down his tea cup to press the tips of his fingers to his eyes. “If you had seen it, Oli. Most peculiar. I can't make sense of it.”

“Everything always makes more sense in the morning,” he replies, pouring him a fresh cup.

Louis sighs, taking up the cup gratefully. “You’re right. My eyes are tired for reading as well.”

“Best fresh in the morning.” Oli nods, obviously satisfied. “Books aren’t going anywhere. And a dead man is past help.”

—

It comes as no surprise that Oli is late to wake him in the morning—‘You needed to sleep’—so that Louis has to wait until he is done with his lectures to consult with a senior colleague on the case. 

Although Professor Weston is a skilled surgeon and physician, Louis is skeptical of his diagnosis: ‘A fatal imbalance after an excessive and uncustomary consumption of alcohol.’

“A very high fever or excessive blood loss can have a similar effect as one too many drinks…” Louis contests, looking at him dubiously.

“Well—was he feverish? There are no signs of bleeding.” Weston picks up a rag to clean his hands. “It seems clear to me, Tomlinson. But perhaps… an infection of some sort? You are the expert in these matters, but are not workers in the harbour and the factories prone to such afflictions?” 

In his years working as a physician among the working class Louis had never seen anything like what had happened to Abel. Nonetheless, Weston’s speculation gives him an idea. 

Leigh-Anne finds him first even as he set out to search for her in the lecture halls. 

“An infection?” she questions when he tells her about Professor Weston’s hypothesis. “What kind of infection? He didn’t respond normally to any treatment.” 

Louis shrugs. “Only more cases to study can give us any answers.”

“Should I ask around? If several workers at the mill or one of the factories have fallen ill and died, someone will have heard.”

“Please, darling,” Louis agrees. “I mean to send my valet to the harbour to inquire as well.” He summons a slight smile. “Of course it isn’t likely we will be able to examine any bodies—not without some desecration of graves at any rate—” 

Leigh Anne snorts, shaking her head even as she smiles. 

“But the families’ accounts may still tell us something,” Louis continues, more seriously now.   
  


It’s later than usual by the time he starts his walk home—the sun low and the lamplighter hard at work. Despite the wet chill and the dwindling light, the streets are busy with people and carriages, making a mush of the wet, fallen leaves, and the park host to a number of idlers still: two women walking a troop of small, yapping dogs that put a smile on Louis’ face; and a couple sitting by the fountain… the sight of which cannot help but bring a pang of wistfulness. 

Turning the corner, distracted, Louis almost walks into a coachman who was nursing a pipe while waiting for his master.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry—”

“Mr Tomlinson!”

Caught off guard at being addressed personally, Louis takes a wary step back. It takes him a moment to place the man before him. “Davis,” he says dumbly.

“Aye, sir, it’s me. How do you do?” They stare at each other in an awkward moment, before Louis offers his hand for a quick handshake. 

Breaking into a smile, Davis shakes his head. “You’ve not changed, sir. I see you still pay no mind to proprieties.”

Louis lets out a small laugh. “It is only proper to shake your hand.”

Davis looks him over with a critical eye, before nodding. “You look well. I’m glad.” His expression turns grave. “Mr Tomlinson, I—” he continues despite Louis’ attempts to stop him. “I should have said something. It wasn’t right what he did…”

“I would not have had you risk his trust and your position, Davis,” Louis replies mildly with a pacifying gesture of his hand. “But thank you.”

“If I may, sir… Master Snyder will be out soon…” Davis warns tactfully, shooting a meaningful glance to the council house on the other side of the street. “Him and Mrs Snyder.”

He has seen _him_ around before in the last years, a fair few times—a prominent figure in Bostonian society like John Snyder is nearly impossible to avoid, even for Louis whose social circle is so far removed. But he has no desire to see him face to face, cannot guess if John would pretend not to see or know him, or if he would introduce him to his wife—John had a viciousness to him.

With a tip of his hat, that Davis returns along with a short bow, Louis makes a quick retreat. He isn’t fast enough to avoid the sight of him completely, however—catches sight of him exiting the building, waving his handsome ivory cane impatiently as he argues with his business partners, while Mrs Snyder nee Jefferson brings up the rear, accompanied by her sister. 

Louis does not love him anymore; and it’s been long enough that even the sharp pain of betrayal and heartache has dulled with time and perspective. However, it isn’t pleasant, and he hurries on home.

“Oli, I have an errand for you—” Louis begins upon getting home as he hands him his medical bag to put in his office and hangs up his overcoat himself. “A request, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Sure, whatever you need,” Oli agrees immediately, following him into the living room. “But what are you doing?” He clucks his tongue when Louis plops himself down on his armchair. “You’re running late.”

“What? Running late for what?” Louis looks up after kicking off his shoes. “I haven’t even had dinner.” 

“There’s no helping that.” Oli gently but firmly tugs him to his feet. “You’ll want to wash still, and fix your hair, and Mr Malik will be here in less than twenty minutes.”

“ _Shit_ , the party!” Louis had completely forgotten he had agreed to accompany Zayn to a social that evening. 

“The party,” Oli confirms.  
  


“We’re still within the limits of fashionably late,” Louis argues weakly as he closes the carriage door behind him. 

Zayn stares at him, sprawled in his seat. “I think that was two waistcoats, three almost identical cravat ties, and a missing pair of gloves ago,” he replies, deadpan.

Louis winces. “I’m sorry. I would have started getting ready earlier, but—”

“You forgot.”

“I did,” he admits with a grimace. “I know it’s a poor excuse, but I had quite a night; I fear my mind was elsewhere.”

Zayn reaches across to give his knee a pat even as he rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. I would hope a group of artists and modern thinkers would not be so fussed. I wouldn’t bother to go, really, normally. But, well… I can’t think only of myself anymore. And I am in need of a patron.”

“You are an marvelous painter, Zayn. You will have your pick of sponsors,” Louis reassures him. “And how is Gigi?”

“Eager for the babe to get here, as you can imagine. But as fierce and beautiful as ever,” Zayn answers with a fond smile, before raising his eyebrows at him. “But what is it that happened last night? Interesting case?”

“An unusual one. No least the carrier.”

“Hm?”

Pinking, Louis waves a hand dismissively. Neither the flirtation nor the rejection is something he really wants to recount right now. “It’s nothing.”

“You have only convinced me that it _is_ something.”

It’s Louis turn to roll his eyes, but he still takes a breath before giving in: “He was handsome. And… interesting. That’s all.”

Zayn lets out a chuckle. “He sounds better than John already. What you ever saw in that overbearing, arrogant pig…”

“I… I saw him today, actually.”

“Really?”

“Walking home.” Louis fidgets with his cravat pin, then allows himself a small grin. “He must have changed his tailor—the fit of his outfit was all wrong. And he has put on weight.”

When they were together Louis would not have dared to voice anything but praise for fear of John’s quick temper. The freedom to speak his mind is even now rather exhilarating.

Zayn’s eyes squint with laughter. “Balding too, last I saw him.”

Louis giggles, and Zayn smiles for a long moment before sobering slightly. “You’re alright? Really?” he asks in a soft, earnest voice, holding his hand out to Louis, who takes it gratefully.

“A bit lonesome, perhaps. But yes, quite alright.” 

“Well as for that, all you need to do is bat your pretty eyelashes around tonight, and I’m sure you can find yourself a man.”

“That easy, hm?”

“You know it is,” Zayn drawls.  
  
  


Located in the most fashionable neighbourhood, the townhouse is a testament to the wealth of its owner. Music can be heard at the doorstep, and the murmur of conversation as they leave their gloves and hats in the foyer.

“Who’s the owner of this house again?” Louis whispers as a servant leads them up the stairs to the second floor, reserved for entertaining. “You want _him_ for a patron…”

Zayn snorts. “Henry Cavill. He favors singers and actors over painters, from what I hear. But Miss Huang has promised to introduce me tonight. He is a good person to know, in any case.”

The music and the entertainment are pleasant enough, and the event boasts some rare refreshments: an exquisite sparkling wine, and a sampling of exotic fruits: oranges and pineapple from new plantations in Florida, and bananas originally from South America.

Louis is on his second glass of wine when Miss Jun Huang finds them in preparation of making the introductions between Zayn and Mr Cavill. She leaves them in the company of an immigrant dancer, who wastes no time in filling them in on their host, in rapid and unblushing speech: “He’s so rich even the Brahmins tilt their hats to him in the street. Though they all despise him, of course, what with him being foreign born, and involved in some form of scandal every other month.” 

“Is that so?” Louis asks with some skepticism. It is true he does not keep up with high society affairs, but he thinks _something_ might have reached him.

“Well. Maybe not as often as that!” Miss Rexha admits with a laugh. “But I have it on good authority he is a regular patron of every theatre and vaudeville in town, and that is bad enough in their eyes, is it not?”

Louis cannot help but seek out the subject of their conversation. He spots Miss Huang where she has joined a small mixed group all paying court to one man, who cannot be other than their host. For a moment all Louis can see of him is a large but elegant hand holding a glass, and his legs: he sits with them spread wide, the fabric of his trousers stretched tight over his muscled thighs. 

Then the woman in the crowd obstructing his view steps to a side and Louis gets a look at the rest of him. In conversation with a young woman with hair like pale wheat seated at his side, he has his head tilted to listen to her, revealing a square jaw, strong Roman nose, and dark curls pomaded back from a high forehead. 

“Where does his wealth come from?” Zayn asks with interest.

“Nobody really knows,” Miss Rexha answers in a hushed voice, but with obvious relish. “Some kind of trade. He travels a lot. Does it matter? The point is that he’s dreadfully rich, and still unmarried, at thirty-seven, imagine that.”

Louis echoes Zayn’s low sound of acknowledgement, his attention divided as he puzzles over how it can be that Mr Cavill seems so familiar to him when they are complete strangers.

“Here they come!” Miss Rexha squeals, making a grab for Louis’ forearm. Her grip is higher than the band of bruising on his wrist, but these are sensitive even to the brush of his clothes, and he has to suppress a wince as Mr Cavill approaches them with an amiable smile.

He is several inches taller than Louis, and very broad in the chest and arms. He is also very handsome.

“Mr Peterson recently bought two of your pieces for his country house… for his private quarters at any rate,” he tells Zayn with a chuckle, after Miss Huang gives him their names. 

Zayn hums in displeasure. “We do not censor mythological nudity, or that purified by the distance of time. Why not celebrate it in the present? What greater beauty than the human form as Nature designed and bore it?” Though his tone remains dispassionate, Louis knows well how strong his opinions are on art and propriety. 

Henry offers him a minute bow. “I wholly agree,” he says simply, before turning to Louis—a teasing tilt to his mouth. “And you, Mr Tomlinson? Are you an artist, as well? Or a muse?”

Thrown off balance by the unexpected comment, Louis automatically reaches up to fidget with his hair, only to encounter his bare forehead, as his hair is slicked back in a side part. “A physician,” he answers, his face hot. “A professor at the Women’s College.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Shy in spite of himself, Louis looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, then drops his eyes when Henry takes his hand and bows over it rather than shake it. “You seem familiar,” he says—hesitantly, although he is even more certain that he has seen him before. “Forgive me, is it possible that we have met before?”

“Not a chance, I’m afraid.” His gaze intent and obviously appreciative, Henry looks him up and down. “We have not met. I could not forget you. Your face, your voice, your figure…” He turns to Zayn, the corners of his mouth upturned: “You are an artist, sir, you will attest to it that a man is not quick to forget a masterpiece.”

Louis gapes at him, speechless.

Miss Rexha gasps then claps a hand to her mouth, her eyes sparkling. 

“Quite right.” Zayn answers, smirking, and sliding his foot away when Louis tries to step on his toes.

“You flatter me, sir,” Louis manages in a small voice, instinctively clasping his hands to his chest, one hand tucked into the other. “Almost to the point of mockery, it seems.” 

Henry’s expression leaves no doubt he is taken aback by Louis’ response. “Not at all. I promise you, I mean every word,” he tells him quite seriously, before his lips curve into a tentative smile. “And I challenge you to find one person here who will deny I have a most discerning eye for beauty.”

In his peripheral vision Louis notices Miss Huang biting back a smile. He forces himself to lower his hands, but cannot help rubbing his hands together in a self soothing gesture, overwhelmed by the attention. “No doubt I could find a few to admit you are prone to fanciful speech.”

“But none who would believe it a fancy once you explained.” 

“Henry, don’t tease him so, can’t you see he’s shy,” Miss Rexha exclaims, and though for a second Louis think she might pinch his cheek, he welcomes the interference. 

Henry bows to Louis, expression apologetic. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable, Mr Tomlinson, please forgive me.”

Louis nods timidly, glancing up at Henry whose gaze remains fixed on him. He cannot shake the notion that he knows him.

“We have another doctor amongt us, as a matter of fact, a surgeon and a good friend of mine,” Henry continues. “Will you allow me to introduce you?”

“Of course,” Louis replies politely. “Please.” 

“This way—” he says, smile broadening.

“Wait, Henry!” Bebe grabs hold of him. “I must ask: was that Miss Fanning you were conversing with earlier?”

“Indeed it was.”

Her eyes widen comically. “A Boston Brahmin heiress… It hardly seems… appropriate,” she marvels, sounding quite delighted. 

“I endeavor not to be, at all times,” Henry retorts, deadpan. “My reputation depends on it,” he adds with a roguish grin. 

While it makes Bebe laugh and Zayn roll his eyes, Louis’ mistrust returns in full force. 

Guiding him across the room, Henry keeps a hand hovering over the small of his back. “Did that offend you, Mr Tomlinson?” he asks after a moment, clearly picking up on Louis’ disapproval. 

Louis only hesitates for a second before answering truthfully: “A man of means such as yourself may make a game of his reputation, but it can be harder for a young woman to do the same.”

He knows it all too well, having been unable to protect his sister from a minor scandal some years back. Evil had turned to its own form of good, as it had ultimately resulted in her marriage to a French Canadian railroad magnate, but it was still a sensitive topic for him.

Henry considers him briefly before inclining his head, conceding. “That is very thoughtful of you. And you’re not wrong. Nonetheless, please believe me when I say, I pose no risk to Miss Fanning’s reputation—none, at the very least, that she is not willing to take.”

Not entirely convinced, Louis only hums in response, but lets it go, as Henry leads them his friend: a woman in a handsome green dress, her back turned to them as she digs into the contents of a liquor cabinet.

“Miss Jessica Chastain.”

Without the slightest sign of surprise or shame, Miss Chastain straightens and turns to greet them, a bottle of whiskey in hand. She raises an eyebrow at Henry, even as she offers Louis her free hand and gives him a firm shake. “How do you do?” she says, a hint of a French accent in her speech. “Fancy a drink?”

“Is something the matter with the sparkling wine?” Henry asks with undisguised amusement. “It was shockingly expensive, you know.”

“Too sweet.” After pouring her drink with a practised hand, Jessica leans back on the cabinet and looks at Henry expectantly. “Well?”

The unceremonious attitude and the cleft in her chin so like to Henry’s makes Louis wonder briefly if they might be related.

“Mr Tomlinson teaches at the Women’s College,” Henry informs her. 

Miss Chastain’s eyes brighten at that. “Indeed?”

“Mr Cavill tells me you are a surgeon. May I ask where you studied?” Louis asks politely in turn. 

Jessica exchanges an undefinable look with Henry, who seems to give the go ahead with a nod of his head, a smile playing about his lips. She grins with her tongue between her teeth. “In the saloons and gambling halls and brothels in San Francisco,” she answers.

Louis falters only for a second. “An expert in gynaecology and obstetrics then.”

Her laugh is an unrestrained squawk. “Indeed. And you musn’t forget trained in venereal diseases.”

“Useful knowledge anywhere you might go,” Louis agrees with a grin.

Henry chuckles. “Your manners and your wit are impeccable, Mr Tomlinson.”

Miss Chastain gives him a strangely penetrating look. “He’s not just being polite, Henry, he’s quite genuine.”

Louis fidgets with a button on his waistcoat. “Medical practice is not learnt only in the lecture halls…” he says uncertainly. 

“Careful, you’ll be out of a job,” Henry jokes, as he directs them to a huddle of vacant chairs for them all to sit down.

“I only mean, that lectures alone do not make a physician. And there are times when we would do well to take practical expertise over book lore.” He nods at Jessica, who smiles wide as she takes a seat, obviously pleased.

“Do you disagree, Mr Cavill?” she challenges him over the rim of her glass.

“Not at all, Miss Chastain,” he replies, eyes narrowed playfully. “I am a great believer in practical experience.” Leaning in suddenly toward Louis, he lowers his voice. “But if you must know, Mr Tomlinson, I was only _teasing._ ”

His scent is pleasant, Louis cannot help but note, and the warmth in his smile draws a shy laugh from him despite his embarrassment. 

Jessica shakes her head, still smiling. “Mr Tomlinson, you must excuse him, this is a man who has never been doubted, never been opposed—his sex, the color of his skin, his wealth, his appearance, manner and abilities, have all played in his favor.”

Henry spreads his arms in a sheepish shrug. “I cannot deny it. I beg you will forgive me if I am sometimes oblivious or insensitive.”

“Indeed we must own up to our privilege,” Louis says in some surprise. He has been mocked for his effiminacy, scorned for the unchecked rumors of his preference for men, and looked down on for teaching women medicine. Yet he is well aware of his superior position over others.

“You seem entirely too surprised that I should do so,” Henry laughs.

Scrunching up his nose, Louis shrugs. “Many in your position would claim it their God-given right.” 

Henry scratches his chin thoughtfully. “A king may lose his crown. And any man his wealth… and his health—” 

“And is it not the funniest thing that all men around the world come squalling between a woman’s legs and still we pretend any one is better than the other?” Jessica cuts in archly, prompting them both to quiet laughter. 

“Miss Chastain only ever speaks the truth,” Henry declares with a wink.

“However do you manage?” Louis quips.

His unexpected enjoyment at the company calls to mind his best friend, and catching sight of the time on the mantelpiece clock, Louis is forced to break the moment. “Apologies, but I must find my friend—if I leave him alone for much longer he is quite likely to never speak to me again.” Standing up, he shakes hands with Jessica again. “It was really very nice to meet you, Miss Chastain,” he says sincerely. 

“Likewise.” Her placid smile flickers, then returns accompanied by a quirked eyebrow, as though in response to some unheard comment. “Until we meet again.”

Henry looks between them, lips twitching.

Without warning, Jessica’s expression sobers, and she scrabbles to grasp his right hand again. With a blank stare, she leans in. “Do not leave alone tonight,” she says in a strangely monotone voice. 

“Pardon?”

Her fingers loosen around his wrist, and animation comes back to her face. “Goodbye.”

Disconcerted, thinking he must have imagined it, Louis echoes her dumbly. He glances at Henry, but his furrowed brow smooths out immediately when their eyes meet. 

“Be sure to try the sorbet,” he tells him as, with a hand on his shoulder and the other at his elbow he turns Louis bodily around, pointing him toward Zayn. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

As Henry brushes past him, Louis reminds himself he has no right to be disappointed by the perfunctory goodbye. 

He makes a beeline for Zayn, who seems content enough playing bridge. “Are you alright?” he asks in an undertone, passing him his own glass of sparkling wine, which has gone somewhat flat.

“Mhm.” Louis takes a sip, even though he imagines the alcohol on a mostly empty stomach might be the cause of some of his confusion. “A bit tired, I suppose.”

Zayn looks up from his cards. “We can leave, if you like.”

“Finish your game. I’m fine.”

While Zayn carries on with his game, Louis tries the peach sorbet and has another glass of wine, as well as ends up getting an impromptu violin lesson from a musician with bold hands. Louis is almost tempted when he invites him to the rooms he is renting while in town.

But Zayn comes to fetch him—his grin suggesting a win at the card game—and Louis’ head feels too light anyway. He stumbles in the corridor, and Zayn takes his arm to get down the stairs. 

“We should have arrived later and made sure you ate—You’ve never been able to hold your drink,” he mutters.

Louis halfheartedly elbows him in the side. “I’m not drunk. Just a bit… dizzy.”

“Mhm.” Zayn collects their gloves, hats, and overcoats, and leads them outside to their waiting carriage. “Anyway… that wasn’t too bad, was it?” he comments, patting his pocket where he keeps his wallet. 

“Were you expecting it to be?” Louis questions as clambers into the carriage. “Is that why you insisted on bringing me along?” 

Zayn chuckles. “I didn’t quite know what to expect, to be honest with you.” His grin turns teasing. “But I will admit— though I’m not all that surprised—I didn’t expect you to allow the attentions of two men—and one of them Cavill himself.” 

Louis shushes him. “He is… an interesting man,” he grants, however, and at Zayn’s raised eyebrow concedes: “And a handsome one.”

“He liked you.”

“He was amusing himself with me, nothing more. Fresh blood, perhaps.”

“He paid _me_ little mind.”

“You’re married.”

Zayn stares at him, unimpressed, then dips his head to catch Louis’ eye. “Would it be so bad?” he asks seriously. “To find yourself… a companion?”

Fiddling with his hat, Louis averts his gaze. “It makes no difference. He didn’t seek me out again, Zayn. In fact, he seemed to disappear entirely…” he adds musingly.

“So you _were_ looking for him,” Zayn interrupts slyly. At Louis’ glare in response he rolls his eyes. “He must have been called away on some business or other.”

“At this hour?”

A piercing scream interrupts Zayn’s answer.

The silence that follows is heavy. The carriage trundles on for another minute, both of them sitting tense, ears pricked. Then a second scream rings out, desperate and agonized.   
Louis knocks on the separating wall of the carriage and shouts for the coachman to stop. 

“What are you doing?” Zayn grabs hold of his elbow when Louis opens the door, the horses slowed to a walk.

Louis rears back instinctively when a dark form hurtles out of an alley two doors down, and up the street. The night is impenetrable, the street lights dimmed in the area, and not a single lit window in the entire street, and he cannot make the figure out, except to guess at it being man shaped, and yet not so. Monstrous in shape and size. It makes his blood run cold. 

Once the creature is out of sight, and the carriage come to a definitive stop, Louis jumps off and runs toward the alley he had seen it leave, overcoat flapping behind him. 

The street lights shine at full force again, enough for him to see the man on the ground—and the blood. 

Louis wastes no time kneeling to check for a pulse and assess the damage. There are countless deep wounds, the flesh torn.

Zayn’s footsteps echo in the night, and his breathing sounds louder than usual as he stands for a moment, staring at the horror before him. “Is he…?” 

“He’s still alive.” Barely.

“What… happened to him?”

“I don’t know. I thought I saw—” His head swimming, the words to describe something he cannot explain won’t come to him. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Fetch the coachman, or… an officer. Someone who can help us get him… somewhere where I can… treat him. He needs help; he’s losing too much blood.”

Zayn gives him a look—he knows the man is past help. As does Louis. Still, he unwraps his cravat and applies pressure to the puncture wound on his chest, the most pressing. 

“I’m not leaving you alone. What if whoever… or whatever did this is still around?”

“It’s not. Zayn—no one deserves to die in an alley.” 

Their eyes meet, and Zayn wavers. Frustrated, he exhales noisily through his nose, but runs off for help, already calling for help.

The driver complains, staring at the wounded man with distaste. “He’ll get blood on the seats.”

“I’ll pay to have them cleaned,” Louis snaps. “Come on.” 

“Cavill’s house is nearest,” Zayn suggests, though he still sounds skeptical, once they have got the wounded man into the carriage. “Take us back, Jackson, post haste.”

Louis’ cravat is saturated with blood. “Do you think Henry will take him in?”

Zayn shrugs. “If not… better die in a carriage than an alley?”

A blank faced servant, middle aged, meets them at the door.

“A man was… attacked. He needs help,” Louis explains haltingly.

The servant peers into the coach, recoiling as he makes out the bloody scene. “The master is… entertaining,” he mutters. But he composes himself quickly. “You may come in through the back—the servant’s entrance, to the kitchen.”

Soon they have the victim settled on a low cot. Louis remains at his side, washing the wounds with rags and hot water, after failing to coax him into drinking some wine. 

The man never recovers consciousness, doesn’t even ramble as some dying men do.

“He’s dead.” Zayn doesn’t have to ask, when he comes in after sorting payment with the coachman. 

Louis nods gravely. 

“And you’re covered in blood.” 

“Oh.” In a bit of a daze, he stands up. “That was my finest waistcoat,” he mumbles, fingering the blood stained fabric. “And Oli’s no good at getting blood out of clothes.”

“My servants swears by white vinegar and salt water.” Henry strides into the kitchen with an easy smile. Although he is buttoned up and proper, and his face reveals no signs of exertion, a sheen of sweat glistens at his throat when he adjusts his cravat, Louis observes. 

“When do _you_ get blood on your clothes?” Zayn asks bluntly.

Henry raises his eyebrows. “Bareknuckle fighting, if you must know,” he answers with a crooked grin. 

Zayn perks up with interest. “I was at the Sullivan/Morrissey fight at Boston Corners in ’53. My father took me.”

“Lucky. It was a good fight.” 

“There is a dead man,” Louis speaks up, looking between one and the other incredulously. He doesn’t mind the sport himself, and every doctor learns to keep some emotional distance, but he can’t bring himself to be quite so blase while still covered in his patient’s blood. 

Henry turns to him. “Yes, in my kitchen,” he agrees placidly. 

Unamused, Louis snatches the towel Henry offers him.

“And what do you make of it then, Mr Tomlinson?” 

Louis’ irritation is forgotten. “An… animal attack, of some sort. It can’t be anything else.” No human could do this.

“A most unfortunate incident,” Henry murmurs, looking at the dead man with a small frown. 

“Were you just out, sir?” Louis asks, eyeing him doubtfully. “The… attack happened not two streets from here—Did you see nothing? Hear nothing?” 

Henry meets his gaze steadily. “I’m afraid not.” 

Louis sighs, taking a seat at the wooden table. “We need to report his death, so they may find his family.” 

After seeming to convey his instructions to his servant with nothing but a glance and a nod, Henry fetches a couple of glasses. “Will you not have some wine, while we wait? To settle your nerves. You as well, Mr Malik.”

No longer feeling the least bit intoxicated, Louis takes the drink gratefully, welcoming the warmth it provides as everything winds down. He blames the tang of blood rather than another drink on the wooziness that comes over him. 

“Zayn, you should go home,” he says tiredly. “You don’t want to worry Gigi in her condition.”

Zayn hesitates. “You should come with me.” 

“In this state?” Louis gestures to his bloodied outfit. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll call on you tomorrow.” 

With a last squeeze to his shoulder, Zayn leaves them.

Louis pulls his overcoat tighter around him; as his sweat cools, despite the banked fire, he cannot suppress a shiver. 

Exhaustion hitting him, he allows himself to rest his eyes for a moment, chin propped on his left hand, as his right pains him. 

“Louis.”

Eyes snapping open, Louis knocks his elbow on the table as he jerks awake, shocked at discovering he had blacked out for a second. He hadn’t heard Henry move, let alone perch on the bench to face him across the table. 

“You’re asleep on your feet; why don’t you go home?” Henry says gently. “If the officer needs a personal statement he could take it in the morning.”

Louis straightens in his seat, patting down his hair, which he can imagine is a mess. “I’ll stay. You needn’t wait with me, however, Mr Cavill. Although it is your kitchen, you did not see or hear anything… It is really no concern of yours,” he grouches—No food and no sleep has always made him grumpy.

Henry seems to take no offence, however—in fact he visibly bites back a laugh. “Maybe not. But a dead man makes for poor company, and I have better manners than that, at any rate.”

Something clicks in Louis’ mind at his words, not dissimilar from the conversation he had had with Kent the night before. He examines Henry’s face, perturbed at the thought. It makes no sense… and yet. 

“What?” Henry blinks, head tilted to the side curiously. “Have I got something on my face?”

Louis doesn’t think he is imagining that his eyes are calculating behind the facade of confusion.

“No. You don’t.” If he visualizes the beard and moustache, and his hair arranged differently… he doesn’t understand how he didn’t see it before—except, of course, that it makes no sense. How could Henry Cavill and Kent the carrier be the same person?

They wait in terse silence for the police officer to arrive and the remains to be removed. 

Louis takes leave of Henry without shaking hands.

  
Looking back at the house from the carriage, he sees another familiar figure sprint up to the house. When the door opens to admit him inside, his face is illuminated for a moment, leaving no doubt: it’s Smith, Kent’s companion, going into Cavill’s home. 


	2. Chapter 2

“What are you saying, Louis?” Zayn asks him the next afternoon when he calls in for tea and Louis explains. 

“I don’t know. But it was him, I’m sure of it.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows above his tea cup. “Posing as a carrier… Why?”

Shaking his head, Louis takes a long sip of his tea. “I don’t know. But… Leigh Anne tells me of two other cases like Rice’s, at another factory, and Oli found out about a worker at the shipyard almost two weeks ago. And this attack last night… so near to Henry’s house…” 

“Have they identified the victim?” 

“Not yet. But you see—” Louis rips out a blank page from his Haemotology book and draws a crude map of the city. He traces a line from the harbour, across town, to the mill, the factory, and Henry Cavill’s house in the town center. “It’s moving.” 

“It? What is _it_?” 

Dropping the pen, Louis slumps in his chair. “I don’t know.”

Zayn considers him for a long moment, drumming his fingers on the table. “I think you’re tired, and the drink must have gone to your head last night, on an empty stomach.” He raises a hand, palm up, to cut off Louis’ protests. “I won’t deny there might be… something out there. But I can’t imagine what Cavill could possibly have to do with it.” 

“Maybe he—Doesn’t he travel a lot? Maybe he brought in an animal from abroad, and lost control of it.” Louis stares at the diagram on the paper. “Maybe he’s looking for it. He disappeared last night, remember? Right before the attack.” 

Zayn hums, disbelieving. “Alright, suppose it’s that… what are _you_ planning to do about it?” 

Louis deflates, then shrugs. 

“You know what I think?” Zayn slides the paper toward him with one finger, shaking his head.

“What? he asks, grudgingly. 

“There might be some dangerous wild animal loose… but connecting it to Cavill is an attempt to avoid confronting his obvious interest in you. And your interest in him.”

“I know what I saw—it was him. There aren’t… that many men who look like that.” 

“So you do like him,” Zayn says triumphantly. 

He releases his breath in an exasperated sigh. “Of course I like him, but that’s not the point—” At Zayn’s unrelenting, pressing stare, he drops his chin to his chest, eyes on the dregs of his tea. “I don’t want to get hurt again, Zayn.” 

Zayn sighs, and reaches for his hand across the table. “Why don’t you come over to Bayberry Hall, dine with me and Gigi, stay the night, even. You can’t do anything about anything, anyway.” 

It’s true. Whatever is going on, whether related to Henry or not, there is little Louis can do, especially without any proof. “Maybe.” 

“No maybe,” Zayn says firmly. “We’ll be expecting you.”

—

Louis sets out with every intention of arriving in time for dinner, but he never makes it to the manor.

He has no particular objective in mind when he instructs the coachman to drive past the site of the attack. Peering out the window, he tries to reconcile the bustling street, golden in the sunset, with the dark horror of the previous night. 

It is pure chance that he happens to catch sight of Smith—coming right out of the alley where Louis had found the fatally wounded man. It’s a split second decision to order the driver to follow him.

Smith roams about for a stretch—stopping at the post office and a gunsmith, before Louis has to continue following him on foot as he ventures out farther outside the centre and it becomes impossible not to call attention to himself in the carriage.

In a poor district built around the textile factories, Smith darts into a side street. For a moment Louis believes he has stopped to relieve himself—but after a couple of minutes, he starts to wonder if there might be an exit after all that he cannot see from his position. Before he can consider moving Smith reappears—now accompanied by another man. A distinctive figure: Henry, wearing a disguise. Similar to Kent, he sports a beard and moustache, but wears his hair stuffed under a hat, and his costume is that of a pastor: black cassock and a white cravat. 

Dumbfounded, Louis stares in amazement. 

He trails them down another street where they separate, Smith loitering while Henry enters a house after standing outside for a few minutes, talking to an old woman at the door. 

Evening sets in and Louis starts shivering before Henry comes out again, a patched cloth bag over his shoulder, around twenty minutes later. 

The same woman steps out with him, and watches him leave, weeping.

The sight of her tears galvanizes Louis, and it is with renewed vigor in his step that he hurries after the pair through a series of streets in the Irish quarter until they reach a stretch of new buildings under construction, near the riverside.

Henry comes to an abrupt stop, cocking his head to the side. 

“What is it?” Smith asks, peering into the gloom.

“We’ve got company.”

“Oh. Is it—?” He sets the bag Henry had handed over when they left the house down at his feet and gropes under his coat as though for a weapon. 

For all his vague suspicions and confusion, the thought that the pair might pose a danger to him hadn’t really crossed Louis' mind—until that moment. His heart rate speeds up when Henry turns in place, tense and alert.

“Come on out. Don’t be shy now. You caught us, after all.” 

Gathering his courage, Louis takes a deep breath and reveals himself, stepping out from behind the cart where he had been hiding. 

Henry blinks, caught off guard, then lets out a surprised laugh. “Mr Tomlinson, I imagined you had spirit, of course, but this is—”

Louis doesn’t let him finish. Striding up to him, he reaches up and yanks on what he knows to be a fake moustache, ripping it off.

“ _Ow._ ” 

Smith bursts out laughing. 

Rubbing a hand over his face, Henry stares at Louis resentfully. “Was that really necessary?”

“No. And yes.” Louis almost feels bad as he notices the pinpricks of blood budding on Henry’s upperlip. He awkwardly hands back the facial hair piece, gummy with glue. “I do hope you have a very good explanation for all of… this, Mr Cavill,” he says in as stern a voice as he can manage, gesturing at him from top to bottom.

“Perhaps I have better reasons for it than _you_ do for following me.” Henry tosses the fake moustache to Smith, who makes a face but stuffs it in his coat pocket, then turns to look at Louis in the eye. “Have you considered that, Mr Tomlinson?”  
  
Louis flushes, but refuses to be cowed. Henry is an imposing figure, tall and broad, and Louis has no reason to trust him, but he isn’t afraid. “You do not deny it then,” he says. 

“Impossible, after you’ve so ruthlessly ripped off my disguise,” Henry replies wryly.

It almost makes him want to laugh. But he doesn’t want to get distracted. “Will you not explain?” 

Henry frowns, looking into the night. “Can you tell me why _my_ business should be any of _your_ business?” he asks absently.

Louis follows the direction of his gaze, but he can’t make out anything. “These are… my patients, my people. I want to know why you are deceiving them, stealing into their homes, and taking their dead’s possessions for your own.” He throws a pointed look at the bag on the floor, though he doesn’t know what it contains.

“I would not ask if it was not necessary, believe me.”

“Necessary for what?”

“It’s not what you think, Louis.” He makes a hand signal to Smith, who nods and reaches into an inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a folding knife and a small silver flask.

Wrestling his cassock over his head and tossing it aside, Henry checks the pistol uncovered at his hip before drawing a pair of brass knuckles out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Then what is it?” Louis asks, watching these proceedings with astonishment.

“I will explain…” Henry vows—stepping in close, he grabs hold of his upper arm. “If we survive this.” 

“What?”

Henry spins them around as a huge, black shape flits at the edge of his vision, and walks Louis backwards ten or fifteen feet until his back hits a half constructed wall.

Smith gives an inarticulate shout, drawing the creature to him. It moves with preternatural speed, but Smith’s clever footwork and quick brandishing of his knife in wide swipes with one hand succeeds in keeping it engaged.

Despite its proximity, Louis can’t seem to make out anything more than a grotesque mass, with unnaturally long limbs and monstrous claws. It lashes at Smith, who crouches in a fast movement to stab the creature in its underside. But the blade bends and the knife snaps in Smith’s hand. 

Still the creature recoils, snarling. The sound seems to reverberate through the very ground, and Louis covers his ears with his hands. Then squeezes his eyes shut instinctively when Henry fires his gun—two shots in quick succession. Both hit their target. Yet though the creature falters and jolts with the impact of each bullet, it does not stop. And the next shot goes wide as the beast twists with shocking agility to avoid it, then runs at them in a zigzag. 

Another shot rings out, its course true, but useless. 

Henry advances like a fighter in the ring. The metal of the knuckledusters glinting, his blows almost as quick as bullets, he drives the creature back.

“Now, Justice!” he shouts at Smith, as he twists the monster around, gripping the back of its thick neck so that its mouth, lined with an improbable number of razor sharp teeth, is forced wide open.

Without wasting a moment, Justice bounds over and empties the silver flask out into the creature’s mouth.

Its piercing screech crashes over Louis in a succession of waves that make even his teeth ache. Frenzied, the creature thrashes around, a force impossible to contend with—Henry can hold it no longer, and taking a blow falls hard on his knees, doubled over. Justice scrambles back on all fours, groping for the broken knife on the ground. 

Breath coming in sharp, short gasps, Louis presses himself against the wall—there is a clear path to him, and he has no weapon. But the beast, steam escaping hissing between its teeth, instead bolts into the night. In a manner of seconds it’s gone.

An acrid smell lingers, but some of the darkness seems to retreat, although in truth there is no new light. 

His heart pounding in his throat, Louis takes a step toward Henry and Justice as they pick themselves up, Henry leaning heavily on Justice.

“What… what was that?” he asks, voice hoarse, a chill in his bones that has nothing to do with the cold. 

Henry turns his head to him with a grim smile. “ _That_ is my reason.”

Louis looks around at the evidence of the fight: the disturbed dirt and still settling dust, a broken off piece of blade—his ears are still ringing.

“That explains absolutely nothing,” he says finally.

Henry’s chuckle is cut short as he suddenly bends over in pain. 

“Henry!”

It comes as a surprise to Louis that Smith’s isn’t the only voice shouting out for him. Justice gets to him first, however, propping him up again. “Shit shit shit,” he mutters, sucking his teeth in. 

The instinct and training of a physician before a wounded man has Louis immediately taking over, his fear and confusion set aside for the moment. “Sit him over there, so I can examine him.” He gestures to a pile of building stones.

Voice strained, Henry speaks up even as he staggers the few feet to the stones. “I’m alright.”

“No, you’re not, you can barely stand,” Justice hisses as he lowers him onto a stone with a grunt, and wrests the brass knuckles from his hands.

“Just a few scratches,” Henry replies airily, waving an arm around. But he sits hunched over, his other arm wrapped tight around his middle.

Stepping closer, Louis reaches out to touch his forearm. “Let me see. Please?”

Henry gives heavy sigh, but relents with a vague smile, and fumbles to unbutton his waiscoast. “Be my guest, sweetheart,” he says, glassy eyed.

Studiously ignoring the pet name, Louis examines his chest and midsection, widening the rips on the bloodied shirt to see the wounds. “These aren’t so deep,” he pronounces, confused. 

“What did I say?” Henry mumbles, head lolling. “’s a scratch.”

There was too much blood for the depth of the gashes, and his state was bewildering. 

“We need to… get him home. Where I can treat these.… properly…” he says dubiously.

Smith shakes his head, clumsily pushing Henry’s head up straight. “This isn’t a… a bear, or a wolverine. He needs special treatment.”

Henry shushes him. “Justice, don’t fuss—” he slurs. Then passes out. 

Louis studies him worriedly. “Where can he get this treatment?” he asks, unrolling Henry’s cravat to use as makeshift bandaging and padding before closing up his waistcoat again.

“He’s never been hurt like this—” Justice takes a quick, deep breath to compose himself. “But. Um, uh, Miss Chastain’s patched him up before, a few times, he’s said.”

Questioning Justice, Louis learns Miss Chastain is staying at a very decent hotel in town. Concerns over how the two of them can get Henry there passed out fortunately prove unnecessary as he regains consciousness, and is able to walk, even though he reels and would have fallen several times if it weren’t for their support. 

Justice holds unexpected strength in his gangling frame, as he carries most of the weight while Louis, whose slight frame bends under Henry’s bulk, directs them until they find a carriage. It takes him flashing his purse to get the coachman to overcome his wariness at picking up what appears to be a drunk man so late in the evening, and agree to take them to the hotel.

“It doesn’t seem appropriate for him to visit Miss Chastain’s private quarters in such a state, does it?” Louis worries, watching Henry slumped in the carriage seat, half unconscious. Without stopping to think he pulls out his handkerchief to wipe some dirt and specks of blood off his face. 

Justice makes a face, colored with amusement. “Sir, have you _met_ her? She doesn’t care about her reputation.”

“I suppose not,” Louis admits distractedly as he checks on Henry’s bandages. Feeling eyes on him, he looks up to find Henry squinting at him with a lopsided smile.

“You must have fae blood in you, to be so very beautiful,” he mumbles, raising a clumsy hand that falls short of Louis’ cheek. 

Bowing his head, Louis breathes out a shy laugh in spite of himself. He smooths back Henry’s dark curls, which are a mess after the fight and losing his hat. “What does that mean?” he whispers.

Henry only hums, eyes slipping shut again. When he glances at Justice he finds him carefully looking anywhere but at them. 

Miss Chastain laughs even as she lets them into her rooms, clearly with no thought to propriety whatsoever. 

Once they have Henry positioned on the chaise, she inspects him with a critical eye. “You do look a mess,” she tells him with a cackle. “Even your beard is falling off.”

“Your bedside manner is terrible,” he groans.

“Oh, shush.” Jessica gives his cheek a light slap. “Stop getting yourself into these scrapes then.” After unbuttoning his waistcoat and removing the blood soaked length of his cravat, she takes a pair of scissors to his shirt. “Let’s see the damage, then.”

For all that her tongue is sharp, her hands are gentle. “What was it?” she asks Justice after a moment. “What manner of creature are you hunting?”

“Um. Well we aren’t entirely sure, but it’s probably one of those—what do you call them—one of the… _claubuultik_ demons?”

“ _Claawublutig_ demons,” Jessica corrects, deadpan.

Louis stares at them. _Demons._ Though, what else could it be—he had seen it—that was no ordinary creature. “How long have you been doing this?” he asks without thinking.

“Ah… nine months, this November?” Justice answers, then adds, a tad defensively: “Terminology isn’t my forte.”

An incredulous laugh bursts out of Louis.

“Didn’t you get rid of one of those in up in Waltham a few years ago?” Jessica snaps her fingers in Henry’s face.

Henry grunts. “This one’s… bigger. Tougher. ’s not the same.” 

“Hm. Alright, we’ll get this sorted anyhow.” Getting to her feet, Jessica addresses Louis: “I take it you’ve never treated any demon wounds before?” 

“Not as far as I’m aware?”

“It’ll be fun,” she declares wryly. “Will you clean the wounds, as you normally would?” she continues more seriously. “While I prepare— Justice, boy, come help me.” 

As a doctor, Louis is used to seeing patients in pain, but Henry’s crinkled brow and tightened jaw as he cleans out the long gashes has him biting the inside of his cheek, troubled, as he remembers the unidentified man who had died the night before after being mauled by the same creature.

Henry gropes for his hand and holds his wrist in a loose grip. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“You’re mad if you think I’m leaving without getting any answers from you,” Louis replies between false bravado and teasing, giving him a light, nervous pat on the chest. “So don’t die,” he adds, in a rush, before ducking his head shyly. 

While the wounds would not generally be fatal as long as infection could be avoided, this was outside of normal medicine, and he worried. 

The corners of his twitching, Henry reaches up to touch the back of his knuckles to Louis’ face, slipping down to his neck. “I’m not dying as long as there’s a chance of a kiss from your… your pretty lips.” 

In the background Louis hears Justice snort, and he’s still blushing when Miss Chastain approaches, holding a bowl with some pungent mixture in it and a handful of soft, oily chalks. 

Scrambling to his feet, Louis steps back to give her space. 

After painting several lines on Henry’s body—from the center of his palms, along his arms, and over his chest—she applies the salve thickly on the still bleeding cuts.   
Henry hisses, sinews in his neck and arms stiff with tension. 

A signal prompts Justice to pass her a cup which she presses to Henry’s lips wordlessly. Once he has drained the cup, she gestures again, this time for a roll of gauze—wet with something other than water as it’s tinted a deep blue. 

She uses it to wipe the unguent off in rough swipes.

“You’re doing that on purpose, _shit_ —” Henry grunts, sounding more present than he had in the last hour.

Ignoring him, Jessica scrubs down each gash methodically. To Louis’ amazement, as she rubs the cloth a third time, what had been open wounds minutes before are closed and scarring, the tissue pink and new, but undeniably healed. 

“Alright there?” Henry asks with a crooked grin, catching his eye.

Louis approaches, better to examine the resulting scars. The blue tint has seeped into the skin, bringing out a few old scars. He has the urge to touch them, but resists. 

“Beyond God and science,” he murmurs, remembering Kent’s— _Henry’s_ words the night they met. “I knew you were no common carrier.”

“You made it very difficult to stay in character. Indeed, I’ve never regretted a disguise more.” His voice goes low. “I trust you do not doubt that, had I been Kent, I _would_ have found you.”

Louis stares at him. “I still don’t know _who_ you are. Even if I might know your proper name now.” There is enough of a question in his voice that Henry nods to confirm it. “And I do not know what that… thing was. Or—” He turns to Jessica. “How you healed him?”

“There is a lot to explain,” Jessica says mildly. “I suppose you are all staying for dinner?”  
  


There is little conversation while they eat at first: Henry and Justice dig into their meal with abandon, and the near death experience had whetted Louis’ appetite as well. 

No one stands on any ceremony either, not even Henry, as Louis might have expected of a man of his position in society. 

He had washed, and removed the beard prosthesis—with rather more care than Louis had used with the moustache—but he left the shirt Justice had managed to scavenge from the hotel unbuttoned, exposing his throat and chest, and sits with his legs spread, devoid of shame when they settle in the drawing room after dinner.

If the topic of conversation had been any other, Louis would have had a harder time keeping his attraction to Henry in check. But this is a discussion to turn his world upside down.

“You guessed, of course, that Mr Rice’s death was not natural. Word had got back to me of several similar cases, and I jumped at the chance to examine a body.” Henry’s expression turns wry. “Though I had to trust to Justice’s examination after all.”

Louis shakes his head, feeling both foolish and amused in spite of himself—thinking back the situation is almost comical. But his preoccupation as a physician at a loss for an explanation wins out in the end. “Are you saying Mr Rice—and the others—were killed by that… creature that attacked us and killed that man last night? Or… another one like it…?”

Henry swills his wine round in his glass with a pensive frown. “Demons are territorial, it is fortunately rare to find two operating in the same area at the same time.” His gaze distant, he raises the glass to his mouth, but is slow to drink from it. “Everything tells me these deaths are connected. And yet I cannot find the link between them.”

Louis takes a moment to process this: “To be clear, you’re saying there’s a whole… underworld of… demons, and monsters, and supernatural creatures—”

“Mhm.”

“And people, like you, who hunt them?” 

“Not for sport, to protect everyone else,” Henry clarifies.

“Right.”

Repositioning his feet—ankles crossed and one foot propped over the other—he rubs at his sore wrist absently. “I have so many questions,” he says finally. 

A smile playing about his lips, Henry leans back in his chair. “I must warn you, we don’t have all the answers. But, please, go ahead.” 

“Where do they come from?” His hands flutter unconsciously in his animation. “Why they are among us? Have they always been here?” he adds wonderingly.

“The short answer is… nobody really knows. There are accounts going back centuries, and yet—”

“They are not of this world,” Louis fills in, voice hushed.

“No.”

“Could we venture into _their_ world?” he muses.

Justice squawks, staring at him in bewilderment. “Would you _want_ to!?”

Jessica laughs, and Henry throws a cushion at him that he fumbles to block. “He has a keen mind,” he reprimands Justice, making Louis blush.

“But in answer to your question.” Jessica waves a hand toward the bowl with the leftover unguent on the mantelpiece. “You saw: their touch is ruinous. Their domain is death and darkness—no human could ever survive it.”

Louis looks from one to the other. “How long have you been…?”

“In the business?” Henry supplies. 

“Mhm.”

“I have known all my life—even before I left France,” Jessica answers with a shrug. “I have _seen_ , you see, since I was a young girl.”

Reminded of her odd warning at the party, he asks: “Seen… the future, you mean?”

Jessica gets a strange, distant look in her eye, before the familiar impishness returns to her expression. ‘Sometimes,’ is all she says.

“I have no special powers, I fear.” Henry tells him with a grin, anticipating Louis’ question. “I’m a fighter, if you remember?” he adds putting up his fists playfully.

Unable to contain a giggle, Louis drops his chin to his chest. “But you are no backstreet fighter.”

With a faint grin, Henry rubs a thumb over his knuckles, which are bruised—but the skin unbroken, so that the salve has no effect. “I was for a time. I came to the mainland as a young man, made my way all along the east coast, hoping to make a living after years at sea.” He cocks an eyebrow, head angled to the side in a picture of contemplation. “And I did… though not as I expected.” 

Thinking of his notorious wealth, Louis cannot hold back a quiet laugh. “You don’t seem to have done too badly for yourself.” 

Henry chuckles. “I suppose not. Though it did not come easy—if there is one thing to know it is never to take the jewelry for a chest of treasure.”

He shares a laugh with Jessica, who explains: “It is invariably cursed.”

“That’s how they met,” Justice informs him, and continues in a faux whisper: “You should know it’s not as good a story as they pretend it is, though.”

Louis breathes out a laugh, and Henry arches an eyebrow at them. “Do you want me to tell the story of how we met?”

Justice flushes. “I’m sure Mr Tomlinson has other questions he wants answered. Right?” He looks at Louis hopefully. 

Biting back a smile, Louis nods. It is true anyway. “Indeed. Truth be told, you have answered none of my questions, Mr Cavill,” he addresses him with a note of teasing. He remembers all too well calling out his name earlier, but now that there is no more danger, and in such small company, it seems much too intimate. 

“How wretched of me.” Henry smiles, and holds his gaze. “Please know, Mr Tomlinson, that it would bring me the greatest pleasure to be able to please you.”

Flustered, Louis fingers his fringe in a nervous gesture he had never been able to shake. “I am interested to know how you came into this business,” he asserts, after clearing his throat when his voice came out even higher than usual. “When did you learn about these creatures, and how to… hunt them?”

“Well over ten years ago now, I met some people in Savannah—a chance meeting as it goes, while I was pursuing some robbers in the marshlands. They saw something in me, and taught me everything I know. It’s how it usually goes: chance and a choice, and neither something anyone can really explain.”

Louis consider Henry—as serious as he has ever seen him, meditative. For all his wealth and its questionable origin, it must be lonely to walk down dangerous paths no one even knows exist. He glances at Jessica, and then at Justice, who must be his own apprentice.

“And you saw something… in him?” he asks dubiously.

Justice gasps, while Henry and Miss Chastain laugh. “Excuse _me_.” 

“I _am_ sorry.” Hands against his chest, Louis twists his fingers, worried to have caused offence. “I was only joking, I promise. You seemed very capable tonight.” 

“I’ll have you know I’m quite good with the knives…” Justice grumbles, but Louis relaxes seeing the corners of his mouth twitch—before breaking into a grin when Henry confirms:

“He is.” Then continues, poking fun: “I do not _entirely_ regret taking him on as an apprentice.”

“Thank you for that,” Justice deadpans, making Henry chuckle. 

Louis smiles at the exchange as he finishes his watered wine. Banter with John had always been a tricky affair with his unpredictable temper: he would as soon laugh, as sulk, as fly into a rage.

Catching his eye, Henry returns his smile. “Have all your questions been answered now, Mr Tomlinson? Are you quite satisfied?”

His voice is deep, with a sing song inflection that draws the blood to the surface of Louis’ cheeks in spite of himself. “Not quite,” he replies, meeting his eyes before dropping his own to his lap, between genuinely shy and coy. “You still have not explained what you were doing tonight,” he asks, curious now rather than accusatory. 

“Paying a visit to the widow of the man who died in my kitchen last night.”

He blinks at him, surprised. “How did you find him?” 

Jessica raises a hand, wagging her fingers. Louis glances at her, confused, but Henry carries on before he can articulate a question.

“There is no connection between the victims that I can detect except chance—which is no small thing…” Henry continues. “But I had another purpose going there—”

Louis throws a look at the bag they had left by the door. “The old woman gave you something.”

Henry nods. “Demons can sometimes be lured by objects belonging to their victims.”

“We have several now—enough to draw it in and kill it,” Justice pipes up.

Jessica raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even know _what_ it is.”

“But I know someone who might know.”

“Del Toro?” Justice asks with a grimace. 

“Oh he is going to _love_ you turning up in the middle of the night.” Jessica lets out a cackle. “Send my regards to that unsocial old bastard, will you?”

  
“You are going _now_?” Louis asks in surprise, when Henry tells Justice to send for his own carriage. 

“There is no time to waste,” Henry explains as he buttons his blood stained waistcoat. “Another night will almost certainly mean another attack—another death.”

Reclined in the chaise, legs crossed with one foot bouncing nervously, Louis fidgets with the chain of his pocket watch. He is unsure of his place now—abreast of the facts and yet an outsider.

“If you are fatigued, you may sleep during the drive—it’s almost three hours out of the city.”

“I can go with you?” Louis asks, raising his eyes up to Henry in surprise. 

Henry lowers himself onto the ottoman across from him, and reaches out to touch his ankle. “Indeed—”

“You must,” Jessica cuts in tonelessly, without looking up from the book she had been idly flipping through.

A shiver runs down Louis’ spine, but he isn’t sure if it’s Miss Chastain’s ominous sounding words, or Henry giving his ankle a light squeeze.

“Well. The oracle has spoken,” he says with a smile, which Louis returns.

Justice is shocked at Louis joining them, however. 

“It was _months_ before you introduced _me_ to him. I never imagined you would be so weak for a pretty face…” he muses, shaking his head as they set off in the carriage, driven by Henry’s inscrutable servant. “Nothing against you, Mr Tomlinson, sir.”

“Not just a pretty face,” Henry rejoins with a surprising earnestness that makes Louis squirm. “And a completely different situation.” Relaxing into a grin, he claps Justice on the shoulder. “Picture yourself a month into your apprenticeship, standing before Benicio—he would have eaten you alive.” 

Justice makes a face and shudders theatrically. “Alright, fair.”

Louis peers out the window, fingertips against the glass, which is cold to the touch and rattling with the wind that had picked up while they were in the hotel. While the carriage is expensive and well insulated, it’s late, and he finds himself feeling the cold more than usual. “Are you sure it’s alright for me to come with you?” he asks after a few minutes in an undertone to Henry. 

“Oh yes. He won’t be happy to see us either way.” 

He returns Henry’s smile tentatively. 

“So who is _he_ exactly?” 

“Benicio del Toro. He was my teacher. I doubt if there is anyone in this country more knowledgeable about demons than him. Unless it’s Miss Naomie Harris.” Henry leans back in the seat, an arm thrown over the backrest so that Louis is practically in the circle of his arm. “He cares for me—Just not particularly for… company, especially unannounced.”

“He’s very prickly,” Justice comments.

“But it’ll be fine.”

“Right.”

Although he had not planned to sleep as Henry had suggested, lulled by the smooth movement of the carriage, Louis soon finds his eyelids growing heavy. The decision to give in to sleep is a conscious one, but not so moving closer to Henry, drawn to his warmth. Drowsily blinking awake an indeterminate time later, he finds himself curled against his side with his head resting on his shoulder, with no awareness of how he got there.

He must make some movement or sound, because Henry rubs a soothing hand down his arm and murmurs: “Go back to sleep, Louis. We have a ways to go yet.”

Louis hesitates—comfortable and warm, and Henry’s scent somehow evocative of tea and biscuits in front of the fire on a cold winter morning—he has no desire to move. Henry keeps an arm wrapped around him, relaxed and familiar, and Louis lets his eyes close. 

Though he doesn’t fall asleep again, he doesn’t move away until the terrain changes, and he hears Justice stirring in his seat, then sliding the curtain open.

“Sorry. I did not mean to fall asleep…” Louis can’t bring himself to voice the ‘on you’ and he avoids looking at Henry as he fixes his hair and straightens his clothes.

“I dozed off too, for a little while,” Henry tells him, a smile in his voice. “Thomas is a fine driver—he could put a baby to sleep.”

Louis breathes out a quiet giggle at that. Some of his embarrassment fading, he glances at Henry—and the look on his face is unmistakeable: he desires him… and Louis wants him back. “This isn’t a trick, is it?” he asks, a light rasp in his voice from sleep. 

Henry’s eyebrows quirk curiously. “Hm?” 

Looking at him from under his eyelashes, Louis plays with the hair brushing his nape. “Earlier you told me I must have… fae blood. I took it as both delirium… and maybe a compliment. Now I am not so sure of either. You aren’t drawing into some trap to rid yourself of me, are you?” he asks archly. 

Henry laughs, and shifts closer so that their legs are once again touching. “The fae are only dangerous to the heart. I do not actually believe you have fae blood… though you are enchanting enough.” His eyes dart to Louis’ lips as his voice drops. “If I did not carry an amulet against the very thing, I could almost believe you had bewitched me.”

Louis moistens his lips without thinking, teeth digging briefly into his bottom lip. “Believe me, I am far from irresistable,” he whispers, eyes dropping to Henry’s hand on his knee.

“Oh, no one’s not home!” Justice calls out, his back to them as he looks out the window, completely oblivious.

Henry grimaces, then laughs when Louis scrunches up his nose. With a squeeze to his knee, he turns to look outside. 

“Let us go up to the door and see, shall we?” he says mildly, but Louis is pretty certain he is biting back a grin.   
  
  
It’s too dark to see make out much detail of the homestead, but the air is fragrant with the scent of Chrysanthemums and traces of pine. There are no lights on inside the farmhouse.

Henry leads Louis up to the door with a hand spread on the small of his back, while Justice drags his feet behind them, kicking gravel. Grabbing hold of the heavy brass knocker, he bangs it against the door—again and again. “Go on, Master del Toro, let us in already!” he shouts after a minute. “There is a biting wind.”

Silence meets his words—then a gruff voice calls back impatiently, sounding right behind the closed door: “Do the _right_ knock if you want to come inside.”

Henry winks at Louis before arguing airily: “You change it every other week, I couldn’t possibly keep up.”

“Best think fast then, if you want to come in.”

“It’s the middle of the night—no time for your pig-headedness.” A new voice rings out: female, accented, and with the tones of one long lacking in patience. 

“Hardly the time for a visit,” Del Toro grumbles.

The woman who opens the door looks them over for a long moment, one hand on her hip and the other holding an oil lamp, before she steps aside—though her eyes linger on Louis.

“Hurry now or you’ll let the cold in.”

“Thank you, madam, as gracious as ever.” Henry pretends to tip his hat at her while guiding Louis inside with a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles at the base of his neck.

She holds up a warning finger. “You watch that tongue, or you can come back at a respectable time.”

Henry lets out a laugh. “When did you become respectable folk?” he quips.

“Since we retired,” Del Toro deadpans. “You better have a good reason for coming at this hour.” 

Henry’s manner grows serious. “I do. You know I wouldn’t otherwise.”

The older man studies him for a minute, before nodding. “Come on then.” Turning his back on them he starts down the corridor, walking with a slight limp. “What’ll you have to drink?” he calls out. “Tea? Brandy? Whiskey?”

  
In the drawing room, Louis cradles his tea—with a shot of whiskey at the insistence of Benicio, who occupies the armchair right in front of him and stares while swilling his own brandy about in his glass. 

Henry sits beside him, his knee pressed against his own. At another time that might have made him nervous, but in that moment it makes him feel safer. He knows Zayn would have something to say about Louis going out of the city with strangers without telling anyone. 

“You’re getting too old for this, Henry,” Benicio speaks up without warning, gruff and impatient. “I was your age when I started training you; you’ve got an apprentice of your own—” He glances at Justice, mouth twisted to the side. “Of sorts. You’ve got to take care of business yourself.”

Miss Harris gives a cluck of impatience. “Do not listen to him. He forgets, as usual, that he’s always had me…” she pronounces scathingly. “And we had others who had come before us. No one does this job alone.” 

Benicio pulls a face behind his glass, but capitulates with a grunt of agreement. Draining his drink he sets his cup down and leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking straight at Henry. “Speak.”

  
Henry explains about the two patterns of deaths over the last couple of weeks, and describes the creature that had attacked them—hours ago, though it feels much longer—in detail, with some additions from Justice on how they had fought it, and calling on Louis to corroborate.

Once filled in on the situation, Benicio leans back in his seat again, shrouded in darkness and expressionless, he fingers the broken knife Justice had brought with him. 

The silence lies heavy in the room for a long minute.

Miss Harris drums her fingers on the armrests of her chair, then straightens in her seat all of a sudden, looking at Louis. “Let me see your arm.”

“What?”

She holds out her hand, fingers tapping her palm impatiently. “Let me see. I will not touch it.”

An alarming thought starting to take shape in his mind, Louis extends his arm, and rolling up his shirt and coat, exposes his wrist. The bruising has worsed in the last hours, an unnatural black seeping deep into his skin, down to his veins. 

Gripping his elbow, Henry angles Louis’ arm toward him. “What is this?” he asks, voice clipped, though the touch is feather light when he traces the bands of bruising and dark lines. 

“It is the demon’s mark.” Naomie lifts her eyes to Louis. “It has marked you as its next host.”


	3. Chapter 3

From the drawing room she leads them to another room, under lock. Louis expects some form of armoury, perhaps, or a novelistic sinister laboratory like the one in which _Frankstein_ had created his monster. But the door opens to reveal nothing but a library, much like his own at home, although the stale air suggests it does not see regular use.

On the other hand, the book Naomie collects from one of the shelves shows signs of age and frequent handling. The group gathering around the lamp with the exception of Benicio, she props it open, revealing it to be a bestiary of sorts—but with creatures unlike any animal in the natural world. 

Lips pursed, she flips through the pages for a few seconds until she finds it: a crude drawing of the creature that had attacked them, albeit faceless, a massive dark form with many legs and vicious claws. 

“The man you tended to, Mr Tomlinson, and the others like him, who went missing and died from no wound or discernible illness—they were discarded hosts. The _sublodam_ demon is not strong enough to exist on its own in our world, it needs a human frame to sustain it. It will take a human, use them to hunt, then when that human can no longer hold it—a matter of days, usually—shed them, leaving them to die,” Naomie explains, as calm and collected as though she were discussing the weather. 

Henry glances at Louis with a troubled expression. “A _sublodam_ …”

“It leaves them to die, while it moves on to another—ready for the taking, as the last host marked a new one, before it died.” Benicio’s dressing gown flaps around him as he paces about the room. “Tonight—it did not go after _you_ , did it?” he asks Louis, who shakes his head ‘no’ numbly—the creature had the chance to kill him, but had fled instead. 

“As long as it has someone to latch onto, it will endure, in a never ending cycle, spreading.”

“So we just need to… disrupt the cycle, right?” Justice speaks up. “Starve it out? If it can’t get to Mr Tomlinson, when its current host can’t hold it anymore, it will die… won’t it?” he adds, his confidence wavering as he takes in the grave faces around him. 

“It won’t be that easy, will it?” Henry mutters.

“It will fight you. It is wounded, desperate with the need to abandon its current host and switch to the new one,” Benicio declares grimly. "Its survival depends on it."

“You faced it once.” Naomie taps a finger over the drawing, then over a dried blood stain on Henry’s waistcoat. “You bear its scars. You know its strength and ferocity.”

“The darkness and the cold feed it. Your weapons will not be enough.”

“You must wait as long as you can. Wait until you can wait no longer—” she continues. “And then you make your move. No, it will not be easy.”

Louis instictively looks to Henry, but cannot catch his eye, as he is already moving—clapping a hand on Benicio’s shoulder, motioning for Justice to follow. “What weapons will we need—” 

“What about the person… _inside_ right now?” Louis blurts out. Learning about the existence of supernatural creatures had pushed the reality of the deaths they caused to the back of his mind, but there was no escaping it now. “They are still alive when the… demon leaves them. Is there no way to save them?” he asks in a small voice as everyone in the room turns to look at him. 

“None that we know of.”

Benicio shakes his head. “It’s too late. Once the demon takes hold, there is nothing to do.”

It hits Louis only in that moment that this could be his fate too, if the demon gets to him, if Henry and Justice can’t kill it—he will feed that monster, allowing it to hunt and kill… and then die.

  
The dark blue sky has washed out to a dim grey by the time they make ready to leave the farmhouse. 

“Careful with that, boy! That steel is older than this godforsaken country.” Benicio hardly looks up from where he is conferring with Henry and Naomie to shoot a warning glare at Justice as he carries to the carriage a couple of crates with a long leather package balanced precariously on top.

Mockingly pretending to trip when Benicio looks away, Justice rolls his eyes, exchanging a look with Louis, who obliges with a small smile. But fear and weariness are weighing him down, and he feels rather out of place, waiting perched on the floor of the open carriage. Something must show on his face, because Justice hovers awkwardly after setting down his load.

“You’ll be fine, you know,” he says finally.

Louis squints at him. “How sure are you about that?” he asks, half serious, half in fun.

“I’m feeling pretty optimistic?” Justice replies with a shrug.

A surprised laugh escapes Louis. “Thank you.”

“It’s good to see you in high spirits.” Henry joins them by the carriage, his boots squelching in the mud—it had rained in the night, and seemed almost certain to rain again. 

“Well Justice was reassuring me I’ll last the night,” Louis tells him wryly.

Henry offers him a crooked grin. “I can confirm it. You have nothing to fear,” he adds in a low, earnest voice, looking into his eyes. “I know what I'm up against now, and I've got everything I need. I won't let it hurt you.”

Louis glances at the engraved wooden pistol case he is holding, and summons a weak smile. “I know.” He breathes out a light laugh. “Thank you.”

  
“You’ll be fine.” As they near Louis’ address, Henry breaks the silence that had prevailed for most of the drive. Aside from a few comments on the scenery, there had been little conversation. Louis imagined Henry’s mind was occupied making plans for that night, and he hadn’t wanted to bother him. Justice had snored tucked against a corner.

“I have always known there were risks as a physician… though granted this isn't quite what I expected.”

Henry’s mouth quirks. “You needn’t worry. Everything will work out.”

Louis smiles faintly. “I told you the first time we met: I’m not a man of faith, Mr Cavill.”

“Henry.” He brings Louis’ hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Please.”

“Henry,” Louis concedes in a quiet breath.

“But you are a man of trust—” Henry says solemnly. “And you can trust me. I swear, I will let no harm come to you, Louis.” 

Louis leans in without conscious thought, unable to look away from Henry’s intense gaze, unfaltering except when it drops to his mouth. But Justice stirs in his corner, and Louis remembers himself. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” he says simply, squeezing his hand before drawing back as the carriage comes to a stop.   
  


Oli is at the door before the carriage has rounded the corner, and Louis mounted the stairs. 

“Louis, where you have been? What happened?” he asks, fretting over him as he ushers him inside. “Zayn sent word you didn’t go to him, as you intended. I didn’t like to worry him, so I said nothing, but _I_ was worried.”

Louis pulls him into a quick hug. “I should have let you know, somehow, but so much was happening, it did not cross my mind, forgive me.”

‘But you’re alright?’ is all Oli asks in return, helping him out of his overcoat.

Louis nods. His eyes feel tired, but he doesn’t want to waste the hours he has left on sleep. “Yes. I may need a bath, but—later. Have breakfast with me?” 

It’s not unusual for them to eat together rather than Oli serving him, but he still squints at Louis suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

Louis is not… afraid, exactly. He has a quiet acceptance of his mortality that comes with his profession, where death is a constant. But he is worried, of what he will do if the demon possesses him. And the sense of unfinished business along with the prospect of saying goodbye to those he loves makes his throat feel tight.

“I will be. As soon as I have some tea.”

  
“So what happened?” Oli demands through a mouthful of buttered toast. 

Louis massages his right arm, wondering if the bruising has spread further—it feels sore, and even with the tea he cannot quite warm up. “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you—I can hardly believe it myself,” he answers finally. 

Oli squints at him. “Is it over?” 

“Not quite.” Louis glances at the clock: it’s past ten. Less than twelve hours before he has to meet Henry and Justice. “I’ll… be out tonight.”

"You should get some sleep.” 

“No. At least, no more than a short nap.” There is too much to do. “I need to… go to the college, and see Zayn.”

Still, he is tired. And Oli persuasive, as well as experienced in coaxing Louis through his meals, and knowing the perfect temperature for his bath. 

“Don’t let me sleep long,” Louis instructs drowsily as he burrows under the covers, while Oli tends the fireplace. He falls asleep immediately. 

  
He dreams he wanders around an endless labyrinth of streets in the depth of a winter’s night. Cold enough to make the bones ache, he stumbles sightless in the dark—something draws him: an immeasurable hunger… a thirst for blood. 

He wakes in his bedroom, still cold in spite of the fire, starving. Approaching the mirror on stilted legs, his feet leave red footprints on the rug. When he looks into the mirror he sees his naked body, trembling. His eyes go from blue to black, and his flesh seems to melt off his bones to reveal the demon. It looks right at him. 

Louis wakes, startled, breath caught in his chest.

Oli stands over him, a worried frown on his face. “I couldn’t wake you. I was this close to calling for a doctor.”

Raising himself on his elbows, Louis shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says, though he is feeling vaguely disoriented. “I’m fine. What time is it? I must go.”

He loses himself in teaching for a few hours. But by lunch time the black has progressed up his arm, and he cannot shake the cold, even cuddled up with Zayn in front of the fire.

“What’s up with you?” Zayn asks. 

“Thinking.” 

“You are _always_ thinking.” He touches the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “What is it that’s troubling you?”

“Only…” Louis bows his head, then draws up a rueful smile. “The thought of the things I have done, and all the things I have yet to do.”

Zayn snorts, and shakes his head. “The things you have done are beyond reach or influence, but what is stopping you from doing… whatever it is you want to do?”

Knowing Louis as he does, the mere hint of wetness in his eyes has Zayn opening his arms for an embrace, arms wrapped tight around him. “I love you, you know,” he whispers. 

“And I you, my dearest friend.” 

“I know too well I—I failed you, with John. But you do have me, whatever happens.” Zayn rests his forehead on the top of his head. “It might still hurt, but you won’t be alone.”

—

Louis doesn’t tell him anything in the end. They spend the evening together, have dinner, and then he leaves, under the pretext of needing his own bed. Gigi is feeling restless, so Zayn doesn’t question it or insist he stay as he might have done otherwise. 

He doesn’t go home, however. But straight to the address Henry had given him earlier, a rather isolated warehouse he owns in the harbour. It’s late enough there is no one around when the carriage drops him off a few streets short of his destination.

Justice is waiting, emerging from the shadows as soon as they are alone. He stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, sucking on his teeth, for a minute before coming out with a simple ‘Alright?’ 

It almost makes Louis laugh. “Mhm.”

“Good.” He motions with his head and starts walking at a brisk pace, a hand under his coat where he is no doubt hiding a weapon. “This way.”

  
It feels no warmer inside the warehouse than outside, and there is a definite draught that makes the wood framing and creak ominously.

Justice leads him to the door of the foreman’s office, announcing him with a quick, but distinctive knock. 

“I’m going to draw the perimeter lines, now that you’re inside.” Pushing the door open wide, he gives a sweeping wave of his arm prompting Louis to enter. “Be right back!” he calls to Henry, before closing the door behind him.

Louis doesn’t move further into the room. Tucking his hands under his chin, he shivers as he watches Henry for a moment: his back to the door as he finishes loading his pistols. He is in only a shirt and waistcoat, the fabric straining against the breadth of his back and bulging muscle.

A quiet sigh escapes him right as Henry turns around. He looks Louis up and down, a line between his eyebrows.

“Oh sweetheart, you look frozen half to death.” Setting the pistol down in its case on the writing desk, he pulls a chair up for him. “Come—the stove holds some heat still.”

Blushing, Louis walks over with a mumbled thank you. The warmth helps but it’s not enough. Though he has always run cold, he fears this may be more than the night chill and a weak constitution. 

“Do you own this place?” he asks curiously, looking up at Henry.

“I do.” He leans back on the side of the desk, in front of Louis. “And a few others. This one seemed the most convenient.”

Isolated and private, and durable wares: sheet metal and stock iron to export to other ports. 

Feeling self conscious all of a sudden, Louis looks down at his hands tucked between his thighs, knees knocking with nervous energy—it’s the first time he’s been totally alone with Henry since their first meeting in disguise. 

“Louis—” Henry lowers himself to a crouch, resting a hand on Louis’ knee. “It’ll be over soon, angel.”

Louis stills at the touch and the nickname, but offers him a slight, teasing smile. “One way or another for me, yes.”

Shaking his head, Henry obliges with a quiet chuckle, but his brow does not unfurrow.

“I’m not frightened,” Louis assures him. “But there is… something I wanted to do. To ask you, really.” 

Standing up does not improve his confidence, as Henry follows. Reaching out to spread a hand on his chest, he stares at the elegant silver pin on his cravat before raising his eyes to Henry’s face. “I wanted to…”

Henry leans down and kisses him. One hand coming up to cup his face and the other at his waist, grounding him. 

Louis grips the lapel of his waiscoat with one hand, and steadies himself with the other at his shoulder. Henry’s lips are soft, sure where they move against his own, and his mouth tastes sweet but sharp, like rum. His thumb strokes at Louis’ cheek as he kisses him, completely in control. 

Clutching at his back, Louis whimpers as Henry pulls him closer, his hand sliding back to the base of his head, angling his head to nip at his jaw, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his neck, above his collar.

“Henry—” he gasps.

Henry draws back so they can look at each other, then steals another quick kiss. “Forgive me,” he says. “I may have to reconsider if you are not fae, after all. It is pain to stop touching you.”

Louis breathes out a faint laugh, ducking his head as he smooths out the wrinkled fabric on Henry’s chest where he had been holding onto him. “Then why did you stop?” Screwing up his courage, he gets on his tiptoes to find his mouth again, humming and pressing closer when Henry’s hands fall to his waist. The heat and prominence he can feel between Henry’s legs makes the blood rush between his own. He has ever been quick to grow aroused at a man’s touch, and he is desperately attracted to Henry. “We have time still, do we not?”

Making a sound low in his throat, Henry kisses him hard, his hand tightening on his waist, before pulling away. “We do have time,” he answers, but instead of touching him again, he puts distance between them.

“What—” Louis grabs onto his sleeve, looking up at him round eyed. “I thought you… wanted me.”

“I do. How can you doubt it? But not like this, Louis.” Henry palms the side of his neck, and reaches for his right hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist, right above where they both know the skin is dark with the demon’s touch. “Not because you are not sure if you will see the next sunrise.”

Louis lets his breath out in a long sigh, but finally nods.

Before he can think to say anything, Justice returns, opening the door after a cursory knock. “You two are still in here?”

“Just going over the plan,” Henry replies casually, giving Louis’ wrist a last squeeze before letting go. 

“Right…” By the look Justice gives them, it is clear he suspects that is not what they were doing. “… the plan.” 

“Yes, the plan.” Henry steps forward, grabbing his pistols. “Run us through it, Justice.”

  
The plan is deceptively simple: as demons are strongest at night, they have to stall it until the dark lifts—and then kill it.

In order to keep it contained—it will not abandon its marked host, and, wounded, cannot endure any longer in its current one—they have… magic, essentially. 

Louis is shown and explained the preparations: symbols painted in chalk on the floorboards, and candles that burn with unnatural flame and give no heat at all, though their light burns his eyes. When he flinches from them, Henry and Justice exchange a look—but Louis does not ask… he can guess well enough the reason why it affects him alone.

“Is there anything I must do?” he asks.

“Only, be patient,” Henry answers gently. “I will not lie to you, it’s going to be a long night.”

But when he leaves into the foreman’s office for a moment to fetch Louis his coat, Justice presses a knife into his hand.

“This is for you,” he whispers, looking at him straight in the eyes, gaze unflinching. “If it comes to it… It won’t, but—if it does…”

It takes Louis a moment to understand: _sublodam_ demons need a _live_ host, if Justice and Henry should fail, then he must remove himself. He nods, and hides the knife under his coat. 

He doesn’t mention it to Henry, when he leads him to the center of a circular symbol drawn onto the floor, and wraps his coat around him. “I’m sorry, you cannot move from here—it’s for your own protection.”

Holding his coat closed at his throat with one hand, Louis reaches up with the other to touch light fingers to Henry’s lips. “You will kiss me again, in the morning.” It’s not meant to be a question, but his voice wavers.

Taking hold of his wrist, Henry presses a kiss to his fingertips. “I will.”

Louis nods, and drops his hand to Henry’s chest, where the creature had scratched him the night before. “Be careful, Henry.”

Henry’s face shows the pain of tearing himself away, before he steels himself, and takes a step back. After one last look, he turns around and walks out of the circle, leaving Louis alone. 

  
Louis sits down to wait. 

He knows Henry and Justice are near—he hears them at first, indistinct, until he starts to think he is confusing them with the rustle of mice or rats. He wonders if rodents could cross the circle of chalk, when he sees fleeting shadows at the edge of his vision, but they never come nearer.

Despite the extra coat, the cold hurts to his chest, his breath fogging in front of him as the darkness seems to creep closer, fading out his vision. 

Hands trembling and stiff in his movements, he pulls out his pocket watch to check the time. But the hands are spinning slowly round and round, like a broken compass. He drops the watch on the floor, teeth chattering not just with the cold. “Henry?” he calls in spite of himself. “Justice?” 

He can’t hear anything now, not even the rats. The silence is so heavy it feels like pressure in his ears.

Biting down on his lip, heart pounding in his chest, he tries to calm himself, but then he feels it. He _feels_ it, somehow, creeping around him, before he smells it, before he makes out the darker shadow in the pitch darkness around him. Sound breaks through like popping up from underwater: growling, and claws clicking on the wood floor—and then a screech.

Suddenly, a flash of light like lightning dispells the darkness, and he can see Henry, looking both larger than life and too small against the monstrous creature. Like a speeded up waltz, he grapples with it, metal glinting on his fists. And then there is Justice: blades whistling, visible to Louis as negative afterimage. Blood spatters, glistening, luminiscent, thick and black like tar. 

His heart in his throat, Louis stands, Henry’s coat falling off him to pool at his feet behind him. Shaking, the world tilts around him like he is on a ship in a heaving storm. 

The demon stumbles minimally at one of Henry’s blows, and out of nowhere Justice jumps like a bird of prey, burying a fire iron, burning white, in its back. The creature shrieks in pulsating waves that make Louis cower, his ears aching.

It retaliates, tail whipping, forcing Henry back and knocking Justice off his feet—he hits his head, and is sent sliding across the floor, out of Louis’ limited field of vision. 

Sound explodes like a canon blast—once, twice. The creature lurches, its flesh distorting, but it doesn’t falter for more than a second, rushing at Henry, who shoots again until the pistol gets wrenched from his hand; the demon picks him up and throws him through one of the low windows with a burst of sparkling glass, the noise mixing with its scream.

Light spills in—clear and faint: the first hint of dawn—along with a blast of fresh air, tangy with the smell of the sea.

Time stands suspended for a moment. But Henry doesn’t reappear.

The creature turns, silent now, and advances toward Louis, who swallows back tears, shuddering. He can see it clearly at last: fangs wet with drool and a multitude of eyes—and Louis reflected in all of them. 

Hands shaking, he brings out the knife Justice had given him and holds it up to his neck, as the demon nears.

Then—a sound cuts through the air followed by a thud as the bullet, Louis realises, hits its target. The demon jolts, and whips toward the source of attack. Another bullet hits it, and another. It whines, falters as it runs toward Henry, who advances, tall and straight and sure. As they come face to face, he tosses the pistol aside, and pulling out a long, straight steel sword from his hip, uses a two handed swing to hack the creature’s head straight off.

The demon’s body staggers, then collapses on the floor with a loud thump. 

The cawing of seagulls outside reaches them, loud and clear as the warehouse is flooded with morning light, cold and pale, but real and natural. 

Henry’s footsteps are heavy as he approaches Louis, back unbent though his clothes are torn and spattered with blood, both his own and the demon’s. 

With a hiss of steam the monster dissolves all of a sudden, black seeping into the wood, but no trace left of the carcass.

“That’s convenient,” Louis blurts out, breathless, letting the knife he didn’t even remember he was holding fall to the floor with a clatter. 

Henry laughs, grinning as he comes to stand before him. “You’re alright,” he says.

Barely dawn, it’s cold, but the unnatural chill is gone, and when Louis shoves back his sleeve, he confirms the black marks are gone too. 

Louis looks up at Henry, and his hands flutter over his chest and arms. “Are _you_?” 

Although he has some cuts and scratches, he does not appear to be seriously hurt. 

“Just fine,” he answers, chuckling. 

The tightness in his chest easing somewhat, Louis holds his hands spread on Henry’s chest, feeling him breath for a second—still a bit fast from exertion, but deep and regular—before he remembers Justice.

He runs over to him, Henry following. Kneeling at his side, Louis taps him on the face lightly after checking his pulse, which is steady and strong. 

Justice stirs immediately. “Five more minutes,” he slurs. 

“Can you open your eyes, Justice?” 

He does so, squinting, and looks from one to the other. His pupils appear normal, and fast returning awareness is visible from his expression. “Oh shit.” 

“Yes,” Henry informs him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You slept through half of your first _sublodam_ demon kill.”

Justice lets his head fall back with a groan. 

“He’ll be fine,” Henry pronounces.

Louis laughs.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Louis has determined Justice is not suffering from a concussion, Henry bids him collect the candles and sponge the chalk from the floor, while he cleans out their weapons.  
Louis perches on the foreman’s desk watching him wipe down the obsolete executioner’s sword, and clean out his pistol for a few minutes, before he picks up the washcloth with a sigh.

“Come here.”

“Hm?”

“You’ve got blood all over you.”

Henry’s mouth curves into a crooked grin. “How much do you think you will accomplish with that?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at the small square of cloth. 

“We’ll at least get the worst of it off you,” Louis answers, shy when Henry comes to stand between his legs, but resolute. “I should look you over, as a matter of fact—” he continues, inspecting a gash on Henry’s upper arm through the tear in his shirt with a small frown. “You went through a window.” 

“I’m a bit scraped and bruised, but in no pain,” he says with a shrug.

Dabbing at a cut over his eyebrow, Louis shakes his head. “That’s because your blood is still hot from the fight.”

Henry runs his palms up from Louis’ knees to his hips and back down. “It is,” he agrees, voice low and rough as he slides one hand under his right thigh and pulls him forward, wrapping his other arm around his waist to hold him up. “And what can be done about that?” he asks against his lips.

Louis clings to his shoulders, moaning into the bruising kiss. He squeaks when Henry prompts him to wrap his legs around his waist and picks him up with no effort, walking them up against the nearest wall. 

“I desperately want to fuck you,” Henry groans—the heat and hardness of his cock fitted tight against Louis’ ass leaving no doubt of the truth of his words.

Nodding frantically, Louis loops his around Henry’s neck, pulling at the short curls at his nape. “Please.” He hasn’t had anyone inside him for too long, and he is aching for Henry.

“Do you have—” 

A banging on the door cuts him off. “Are you guys done already?” Justice shouts, sounding exasperated. 

Henry freezes where he was sucking on Louis’ neck. “No,” he calls out in a growl.

Louis hides his face against the inside of his arm, muffling an embarrassed giggle.

“I refuse to sit around while you two… do… stuff, Henry,” Justice says firmly. “Sorry, Mr Tomlinson—Louis, no offense meant.” 

Henry’s grip tightens on Louis’ arse for a second, before he exhales loudly through his nose. “Fine. We’ll be out in a minute.” 

“Yes. Get yourselves… sorted.” Justice’s mumbling voice trails off as he walks away from the door.

Henry carefully puts Louis down, only to press him up against the wall to kiss him again. “You’ll come home with me?” he asks, only half a question, thumbing at the smooth skin of Louis’ jaw.

“Yes. But I expect your ardor to have cooled by then,” Louis says with a faint laugh. “I will not hold it against you, however.”

Practically lifting him off his feet as he gropes his arse again, Henry shakes his head. “I would not be so sure. How can I be anything but eager, with you?”

  
As they set out for Henry’s home in a hired carriage, his large hand comes to rest high above Louis’ knee, fingers digging into the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. Yet after a few minutes, he wraps an arm around Louis instead, and pulling him into his side, presses a kiss to the side of his head. 

Louis peers up at him in surprise and some confusion. While John had been passionate—sometimes even forcefully so—he had not been given to random gestures of affection.

With a light touch Henry tilts his chin up and leans in for a quick, soft kiss. “Alright, angel?” he whispers, brushing the back of his knuckles over his jaw.

He cannot help but glance at Justice, but he seems unconcerned with them: caught mid yawn, he offers Louis a lazy grin.

A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Louis holds Henry’s hand up to his face for a moment, before shifting to burrow into his side. “You need a bath,” he says after a minute, making Henry chuckle.

Justice snorts.   
  
  
When they get to his house, Thomas surveys his master for a moment in silence, before nodding, seemingly satisfied to see him in one piece, though he remains emotionless as ever. 

“Any news, Thomas?”

“From Miss Fanning, sir. And—” His expression doesn’t change when he turns to Louis. “Your servant was here, sir, with a note for you,” he tells him, holding out a card with a scribbled note. Louis immediately recognises the handwriting as Oli’s: ‘Zayn requests your presence—Urgent.’ 

His heart in his throat, he looks up at Henry with wide eyes. “I must go, I’m sorry.” 

Henry gives the back of his neck a comforting squeeze. “Take my carriage. Thomas will drive you.”

  
Feeling sick with worry, Louis is fighting back tears by the time he gets to Zayn’s home. Thomas even gives him a slight bow as he holds the carriage door open for him.

“Zayn!” Louis gasps, when Zayn himself opens the door, looking dishevelled and harried. 

“Where were you?” Zayn demands, tugging him inside.

Louis looks him over frantically. “Are you alright? What happened?” 

“Gigi went into labour.”

“A little early…” he breathes. “Is she—and the babe—?”

“Both good,” Zayn replies, breaking into a smile that makes his nose scrunch up. Then after a pause—“I have a daughter, Louis.” 

Both erupt in slightly hysterical laughter, Louis partially in sheer relief. “Congratulations,” he says finally, when he gets himself under control, going in for a hug.

After a long, tight embrace, Zayn pulls back, and holding onto his forearms inspects him critically. “What on earth happened to you? Even Oli didn’t know where you were, and you’ve never kept him in the dark. He was tearing his hair out.”

Louis releases his breath in a long sigh, tucking his hair behind his ear. “It’s… a very long story. May I see baby first?”

Zayn chuckles. “Yes. Come. She’s beautiful.”

  
After a short while becoming acquainted with Zayn’s daughter, and a bite of breakfast, Zayn leads him to a guest room, not admitting any discussion. “You look like you haven’t slept in days. I’ll send word to Oli that you’re safe.” 

“Thank you.”

Sitting on the bed, Louis toes off his shoes, weariness hitting him all of a sudden. He can’t imagine now how he could have gone to bed with Henry, he is so tired. Still dressed, he lies back on the mattress and falls asleep almost immediately. 

—

“Sleeping Beauty, I was starting to get concerned.” Zayn greets him with a smile when Louis emerges from the guest room later in the afternoon. 

After a half hearted jab at his side with his elbow, Louis steps into his embrace. “I was more tired than I thought,” he admits.

Zayn hums. “Feeling better? Are you hungry?” 

Louis considers it, a hand on his stomach. “I could eat, actually.” He feels like he hasn’t had a proper meal in the last days.

Zayn gives a low whistle. “You must be famished. I’ll tell Aislin to prepare something for you—you missed lunch.”

After washing up, they head over to the drawing room where a small table has been set for Louis. The room is overflowing with bouquets of fragrant, blooming flowers. 

“Oh, look at these, they’re gorgeous,” Louis breathes in delight. He leans in to smell a bouquet of lilacs, breathing in deep. “These are greenhouse flowers. And I’m guessing there are more in Gigi’s room?”

“A select few,” Zayn answers, taking a seat. “You know she’s not as keen on flowers as you. Not all of these are for her, though.” 

Louis looks up from where he was admiring a bunch of carnations. “Hm?”

“He must be psychic, really lucky…” Zayn drawls as he pours wine in their glasses. “… or he asked Oli, because he sent your favorites.” He gestures with his glass to a bouquet of daffodils, bluebells and hyacinths. 

A hand flying up to his mouth in surprise, Louis stares at them wide eyed before walking over to them. “They’re beautiful. They’re for me?” he asks wonderingly. “There’s no card.” 

“Well he delivered them himself, and left a message with me…” Zayn replies after a long sip of his wine. 

“What? Who?”

Zayn snorts with laughter. “How many suitors do you have at the moment? Cavill, of course. You were asleep.”

“What did you tell him?” Louis asks, feeling a bit lost. “What did he say?”

“I told him you were asleep,” Zayn deadpans. “Come sit down and eat before your meal grows cold. He asked if everything was well with me, requested I deliver the flowers to you, and to tell you that he is expecting you at your earliest convenience.”

“Oh.” Louis sinks into a chair and reaches for the wine Zayn holds out to him automatically. “Alright.”

Zayn stares at him. “Well now, you must tell me everything—quick before the baby wakes up again.”

  
“You can’t tell anyone, of course,” Louis says when he’s done explaining the events of the last days in full. 

“I have no intention of being sent to a sanatorium, you needn’t worry,” Zayn scoffs. 

Louis releases his breath in a faint laugh. “It’s mad, isn’t it.”

“If it were anyone else telling me this, I would not believe it.” He shakes his head incredulously. “And Cavill of all people.”

Smiling, Louis glances at the flowers Henry had sent him. “He’s an interesting man, I told you.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, before his expression sobers. “I can’t believe you left without saying anything, thinking you might die.”

Louis twists his fingers in his lap, eyes downcast. “I didn’t want to spend what could be our last time together explaining, or upset. And what if you had tried to stop me?”

Lips pressed tight together, Zayn drums his fingers on the table for a minute. ‘Don’t do that again,’ is all he says in the end.

“I am hoping this was a once in a lifetime occurrence, to be quite honest.”

Zayn’s mouth twitches. “ So you and Henry, hm?” 

“I suppose, maybe… yes?” Louis replies uncertainly. “I thought maybe it was only last night, you know in… the heat of the moment. I wasn’t sure if he would be interested in more—but the flowers—”

“Are a good sign,” Zayn fills in. 

“Yes, I guess they are, aren’t they?” 

“I’m glad.” Zayn checks the time. “You should go home, bathe, change, and go to him. You must be… eager. How long has it been since…?” 

“A while,” he admits, rising his feet. “I’m almost more nervous about this than I was to face the demon last night.” 

Zayn waves his concerns aside. “I have a feeling he’ll give it to you exactly how you like it,” he teases, making Louis blush even as he laughs.

The sun is casting long shadows when Louis heads out—after a bath and in a clean outfit, he feels refreshed and energised enough to walk at least part of the way to Henry’s house.

“Mr Tomlinson, Louis!” A familiar voice calls from a carriage, that slows to a walk next to him. Bebe looks down from her seat, with a wide smile.

“Miss Rexha, it’s nice to see to you.”

“I’m so glad I’ve caught you. We should have made plans to meet up again at the party, but you disappeared,” she says, voice tinged with faint reproach.

Louis inclines his head, biting back a smile. “I hope you can forgive me?” 

She waves his apology away. “Of course, of course.” Her face lights up and she claps her hands, clasping them in front of her chest. “You wouldn’t happen to be free now, would you? I’m headed to Mrs Garner’s for tea. And I assure you, I have complete authority to extend an invitation. Why don’t you join us?” 

“That is really very kind of you.” Louis fixes his hat and fringe in a nervous gesture. “But I’m afraid I’m on an errand.” At her expectant face, he explains: "I’m on my way to see Mr Cavill… he’s expecting me.” He can’t help the thrill of contained excitement as he voices this. 

Bebe claps a hand over her mouth, eyes widening with interest. “Are you to be of the wedding party?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, there is no need to play dumb, everyone’s talking about it.” She adopts a loud whisper: “The engagement… to Miss Fanning. Quite a surprise, with her being from one of the old families and all, but so romantic.”

Louis stares at her, uncomprehending. “Henry is… engaged?” he asks dumbly. 

“Very much so,” she answers happily, completely oblivious. “I only partake in the most reliable gossip, you know.” She laughs. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer then, there must be so much to prepare. How delightful, I love weddings. Good bye now!” she calls, before instructing the coachman to speed up again. 

“Bye,” he echoes, almost inaudible. 

He thinks there must be some mistake. And yet—he believes it. Cannot bear the thought of arriving at Henry’s house, and finding out that it’s true—naturally he is going to marry a pretty young heiress and his flirtation with Louis was no more than something to pass the time; he intended to bed him and nothing more.


	5. Chapter 5

“What happened?” Oli questions him as he comes through the door. “I thought you were going to see Cavill.”

Louis hangs up his hat and shrugs off his coat listlessly. “He’s engaged,” he explains numbly. 

“What?” 

“Henry is engaged to be married to Miss Fanning.” Louis’ voice shakes despite himself.

Oli shakes his head, trailing him as Louis walks heavily toward his bedroom. “That can’t be right—He came to ask what your favorite flowers are, Louis.” 

A rueful laugh escapes him even as he his eyes sting with tears. 

“There must be some mistake,” Oli repeats. 

“It’s a fantastic opportunity for him. Why would he give it up, for me?” He presses the heel of a palm to his eyes and takes a shuddering breath.

“Louis—” 

“I’m alright.” He attempts a smile, but the heartache weighs too heavy. “I’m going to go to my room, for a bit. The walk has… tired me out.”

Oli looks at him with concern. “Do you need anything?”

“No. Only—” Louis’ eyes fall on the bouquet of flowers he had brought back from Zayn’s sitting on his chest of drawers. “Could you take out the flowers, please?”

Once Oli has collected the arrangement, he pauses at the door. 

“Thank you.” Feeling hollow, Louis apologetically closes the door on him before he can say another word or ask any more questions. 

In a daze, he undresses, wrapping his dressing gown around himself before crawling into bed and hiding under the covers.

—

He wakes up feeling disorientated, flowers inexplicably in his field of vision. 

“Oli, did you put the flowers back in my room?” he calls, voice hoarse, raising himself on one hand.

It takes him a moment to realise there are more flowers than the original bouquet on the chest of drawers. “Wha—?”

Oli gives a small cough from the doorway. “Those are new ones, actually… Mr Cavill brought them.”

Louis sits up, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. “Why did you take them?” he asks in confusion. “You really shouldn’t have accepted. Let alone brought them into my bedroom. What were you thinking?” His voice breaks, and he presses his lips together under the threat of tears. He has always been able to trust Oli and this feels like a betrayal. 

“I did more than that,” Oli says sheepishly. “I let him in the house.” 

“What? Is he—”

Oli’s eyes slide to the side, to something outside of Louis’ line of sight behind the half closed door. The next second there is a quiet knock. 

“May I come in, please?” It’s Henry’s voice.

Louis stares at Oli, who widens his eyes meaningfully and gives him a subtle, encouraging nod. 

Disconcerted, Louis hesitates—but he trusts Oli, and a part of him is desperate for an explanation, and clinging, in spite of everything, to some wild hope. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he nods his agreement.

Oli shoots him a reassuring smile, and after opening the door the entire way for Henry, retreats with a bow. 

Louis straightens, pressed up against the headboard, a hand automatically reaching up to fix his hair as Henry walks into the room. “What are you doing here?” he asks, clearing his throat against the tell tale scratchiness. 

Henry closes the door behind him, but steps no further into the room. “I was waiting for you, but you never came,” he answers with a wan smile. “I came to see you, and Oli gave me quite a telling off, by which I gathered what had happened. Thankfully he allowed me explain.” 

“Explain what?” Louis queries, holding his dressing gown closed at his throat, feeling especially vulnerable in his state of undress.

“That I am _not_ engaged to Miss Fanning.” 

“You’re not…” 

“No.” Henry takes a tentative step forward. “I’m afraid the rumor mill got it all quite mixed up.”

Louis worries at the flowered bedspread over his lap absently. “But—She was at your party, and she left a note for you—” he mumbles. Glancing at Henry, he notices the cut over his eyebrow has scabbed over, and he has a faint bruise high on his cheekbone, though no visible swelling.

“We are not unacquainted, though not in a romantic manner whatsoever.” Henry picks up a petal from the floor, before looking at him entreatingly. “I assure you. Miss Fanning has… aspirations as an entrepeneur. She does not wish to spend her life in Boston, married to a not so distant cousin. Miss Chastain’s reputation precedes her—she came to her for advice. The engagement is a ruse, the elopement misdirection. But the rumors are mistaken even there, it is a young actor she is taking off with—I think you met him at the party, Mr Ramirez?”

“Oh.”

With his eyes on Louis waiting for a sign or word to stop, Henry comes closer, and sits down on the edge of the mattress, near the foot of the bed—still giving Louis his distance. “Louis, did you think I would pursue you if I was engaged?” he asks—serious, but not a hint of anger, only gentleness.

Dropping his chin to his chest to avoid Henry’s eyes, Louis fidgets with his hair as he processes Henry’s explanation. “Yes?” He gnaws at his nails for a minute, before summoning the courage to look up at Henry. “I am sorry. My doubt is not a reflection on your character, but on my own. This all—it brought back some… unpleasant memories.” 

Stealing closer, Henry extends his hand. “You don’t have to apologise, or explain.” 

Louis reaches out to brush their fingers together with a sigh. “Are you familiar with Mr Snyder?” he asks in a small voice. 

“I have heard of him, of course—he’s quite a prominent figure. Met him briefly, once or twice.” 

He stares at where Henry has taken his hand in a loose, comforting hold, enveloping it completely. “We were… together, for quite some time,” he says finally. “We had… plans to move to New York, or even travel to England. Or so he said.”

Henry thumbs the inside of his wrist soothingly. “I take it his marriage to the erstwhile Miss Jefferson was not in your plans,” he says quietly.

“No.” Louis twists his mouth to the side, nowhere near managing a rueful smile. “He didn’t even tell me about the engaement. I found out in the papers.” 

“Angel—” 

Louis takes a deep breath, and meets his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s been years now.” His voice remains steady—it’s true the sting will never quite fade, but he isn’t in love with John anymore. It was the idea of losing Henry that hurt, not the memory of John. “Only, when I heard about you and Miss Fanning…”

“It’s only natural.” Henry moves even closer, until their thighs are pressed together. Bringing Louis’ hand up to his mouth, he presses a kiss to his palm. “I will not deny I am not entirely averse to the fairer sex. But I’ve never met anyone as fair as you before, in every way. And there is no one else I want, angel. I promise you.” 

Slowly, he he reaches out to cradle Louis’ face, stroking along his jaw with his thumb. “If you will… consider me?” 

Louis leans in, brushing their lips together. “Don’t tease—you know how badly I want you,” he says tremulously. Finding the lapels of Henry’s frock coat, he tugs him closer, sliding down and shifting his legs so that Henry can fit between them. “I was going to let you take me in that warehouse, and you still filthy with demon blood.” 

Holding himself over him with one hand, the other on his hip, Henry laughs. “Will you let me take you now?” he asks, lips brushing against his ear.

“Yes. Please.” Louis tilts his head back with a quiet moan as Henry kisses down his neck and along his exposed collarbones while pushing down the bed covers, which Louis finishes kicking off himself. “Please, Henry.” Slipping his hands underneath Henry’s coat, he grasps at the back of his waistcoat as Henry’s fingers come in contact his bare thigh below his dressing gown.

Drawing back with a breathless laugh, Henry looks down at him, tilting his head to a side. “No nightclothes?”

Louis breathes out a shy laugh. “It’s not night time.”

With a laugh, Henry leans in. “You are… such… a sweet thing,” he whispers in between soft, quick kisses.

Smiling into the long, lingering kiss that follows, Louis finds the buttons of Henry’s waistcoat, working his way up. “Take these off.”

“In a minute.” Taking hold of Louis’ hands to stop him pulling on his clothes, he presses his wrists onto the bed at his sides. It doesn’t occur to Louis to move, his pulse speeding up with growing arousal. “Stay still. Let me first…” Sitting back on his haunches, Henry pulls slowly at the sash of Louis’ dressing gown, undoing the knot to pull it open, leaving him completely bare. 

His face hot, Louis’ eyes slip closed, but he can still feel Henry’s intense gaze roving over his body. And his eyes flutter open when Henry touches him, gripping his hip, thumbing at the jut of bone, and running his other hand down his chest and stomach, to his thigh, prompting him to spread his legs. 

Louis gasps, but lets his legs fall open, trembling. 

Henry shushes him soothingly. “You’re beautiful, angel.” His touch is almost ticklish on the inside of his thigh, before he gives his balls a fondle, and drags a finger up Louis’ hard cock to thumb at the head, drawing out wetness. 

Louis whimpers.

“God, Louis, you have no idea what you do to me,” Henry groans, wrapping a hand around Louis’ cock, covering it entirely, as he pumps him, slow and drawn out, the perfect amount of pressure and friction.

Louis’ hand shoots out to grip his wrist. “Henry, I’ll come,” he warns, voice coming out high.

“That is rather the point, sweetheart,” Henry teases, and as he slides back down his cock, he reaches back to press against his taint, damp fingertips just brushing his hole.

Louis cries out, his knees coming together instinctively, trapping Henry’s hand between his thighs, as his orgasm catches him by surprise.

“Fuck.” Henry keeps a hand on his knee when Louis unlocks his legs.

Panting, Louis raises his eyes to Henry. “Sorry.”

Shaking his head, he leads Louis’ right hand to his crotch, where Louis can clearly feel the outline of his hard cock. “Do not apologize,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“Let me—please.” Sitting up, Louis fumbles at the buttons of his trousers, and this time rather than impede him, Henry only rests a hand on the back of his neck, as Louis pulls his cock out of his pants. It’s long, and thick, almost at full hardness, and it makes the blood rush straight down between his legs again. 

“You’re… very large,” he breathes, glancing up at Henry, who chuckles.

“Does that scare you, or please you?” he asks, cupping his jaw, thumbing at his bottom lip.

Without conscious thought Louis darts his tongue out to wet his lip, getting a taste of Henry’s thumb. “I want—” He can’t seem to get a full sentence out, overwhelmed. 

“What do you want, hm?” Henry asks patiently. 

Louis turns his head into Henry’s hand. “Whatever you want,” he whispers. “Please.”

“Fuck, Louis. Angel, you’re perfect.” Henry pulls him into a kiss, stroking his face and down his neck and chest where he gives one of his nipples a light pinch. “Lie on the bed, on your front.” 

Louis turns without question, shivering as Henry slips the dressing gown over his shoulders and kisses the back of his neck, right over the prominent bone at the top of his spine. 

“Where do you keep the oil?” he asks.

“First drawer, in the dresser. A small blue bottle.” 

He sits in the middle of the bed, watching Henry as he gets off the bed and undresses, quick and efficient, revealing a body that seems sculpted in marble, before walking over the fetch the bottle of oil.

Louis holds a hand over his own hardening cock as he gets a good look at Henry, following the dark hair that spreads across his broad chest and trails down the defined muscles of his abdomen to his flushed cock and heavy scrotum. “Did you find it?” he asks absently.

Henry holds the bottle up with a bit of a grin. “I did.” He approaches the bed, and tugs the bedspread and covers down to the foot of the bed. “Now turn around—on your knees or on your stomach, as I asked, Louis.”

Louis hastens to stretch on his front, tucking his knees underneath him and pillowing his head in his arms. He closes his eyes when he feels the mattress dip and then the heat of Henry’s body as he settles behind him. 

One hand spread at the bottom of his spine, he bends over him, and kissing over one of his shoulder blades, whispers: “Tell me if you need me to go slower, or you wish to stop, at any moment, alright?”

“I will,” he mumbles into the crook of his elbow. “Now, please… I need it—need you.”

Henry straightens, and wastes no time spreading him open. “Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs. The faintest fragrance and snick of the bottle precedes Henry’s slick fingers at his entrance—teasing at first, then intent, stretching him for his cock. 

Louis clutches at the sheets as Henry twists three fingers inside him. “I’m ready. Henry—” he moans, getting on his knees.

With a hand on his waist, Henry turns him around. “I want to see you,” he says as he eases Louis back down against the pillows, and hoists his legs around his waist. 

“I want to see you too.” Louis agrees, breathless, wrapping his legs a little higher and locking his ankles behind Henry’s back. He holds onto the back of his shoulders, fingers grazing over the bandaged cut, holding his breath as Henry slicks up his cock before guiding it to Louis’ hole. He thinks he might come before he gets it all the way in. 

“Breathe, angel,” Henry tells him, softly. His upper lip and neck are glistening with sweat, and his jaw clenches as he pushes inside, letting him get used to the stretch. “How does it feel?” he asks once he bottoms out, after a moment.

Louis nods, eagerly searching for his mouth. “So good, so good. You can move, come on.”

Henry starts out slow, fucking in deep so that Louis can feel every inch of him, almost in his belly, their mouths meeting in lazy, sloppy kisses. It’s good—so good, and Louis can’t believe he almost missed out on it. 

“Angel, do you mind if we—” With no more warning than that, he moves them, pulling Louis on top of him, astraddle of his thighs. He guides Louis back onto his cock with a tight hold on his hips, and keeps him spread open as he sinks down until he is fully seated. 

Louis fusses with his fringe for a second, then holds onto his shoulder as he lifts himself up a little, and then back down. “Oh.” He focuses on the shift of muscle on Henry’s stomach, smeared with wetness where Louis’ cock is leaking on him, as he tries to get a rhythm going, but can’t quite manage.

“Louis.” Henry’s voice is rough, and his hips stutter when Louis looks up at him, lips parted. “Let me.”

He pulls Louis right up against his chest as he bends his knees in order to dig his heels into the mattress for leverage. One arm wrapped around his waist, and the other groping at his ass, he bounces Louis on his cock, fucking him hard and fast. 

Clinging to his wide shoulders, Louis comes within the next minute with a whimper, his cock trapped between them. Before he can get too oversensitive, he feels Henry spill inside him, grinding in deep, breathing hard.

Exhausted, sated, Louis rests against his chest for a moment, still split on Henry's cock. 

“Careful—” Henry says softly as he lifts him off his cock. “Are you alright? I did not hurt you, did I?”

Flopping onto the bed next to him, Louis shakes his head lazily. “Did I sound like I was hurting?” he asks, squinting one eye at Henry.

Henry chuckles, propped up on one elbow, a hand settling on his stomach and then the dip of his waist when Louis rolls onto his side. “No. You sounded like I was pleasuring you well.”

Louis tickles the tips of his fingers up Henry’s arm from the back of one hand to his shoulder, gentle over a bruise. “You were. Very much so,” he says, smiling up at Henry before dropping his eyes, shy even after laying with him, still wet from him. “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking _you_.” Henry captures his hand and kisses his wrist, then bends down to kiss his mouth. “So beautiful. Every sound and every touch and every taste so sweet.”

Louis scrunches up his nose to keep from smiling, but he is high from his orgasms, and… happy. He plays with the damp hair on Henry’s chest, throwing a leg over his calves. “I quite like you too, you know?” he teases. “Quite a lot as a matter of fact,” he cannot help but add, the earnestness in his voice and expression undeniable. 

When Henry smiles, wide and soft and bright, Louis knows that he may come to more than like him in no time at all.

  
“You’ll be careful, fighting these… creatures, won’t you?” Louis asks, later, once cleaned up and dressed enough to eat dinner, though there was no hiding what they had been doing from Oli. “And get help if you get hurt?” 

Henry smiles around his mouthful of baked fish. “I will. I promise.” 

“And you won’t ever leave without telling me before, will you?” His voice comes out too small and tentative, and by the gentle look in Henry’s eyes, it is clear he knows Louis is not only referring to going out to fight monsters. 

“I won’t leave you,” he says simply. 

Louis moves the potatoes and cranberries around in his plate for a moment, before nodding, glancing up at Henry from beneath his eyelashes. “I’d like it if you stayed… Tonight too. If you like,” he adds in a rush, round eyed.

Henry inclines his head, expression solemn and sincere, before his lips quirk. “It will be my pleasure.” He bumps his knee under the able. “And yours,” he continues playfully suggestive.

Ducking his head, and automatically reaching up to pet his hair, Louis is overcome with a fit of giggles, covering his mouth with one hand. It makes him feel ridiculous, as he is nearing thirty, no longer a green boy. But Henry only laughs, unmistakeably fond, and reaching for his other hand over the table, leans in to kiss the smiling corner of his mouth.

— — —

The sudden increase in rustling and murmuring alerts Louis he has gone over the time of his lesson. A glance at the clock confirms it; no more than a few minutes, but enough for his students to get restless—understandable on a fine summer day. “We’ll continue tomorrow, then.” With a smile and a small wave he dismisses the class, and prepares to wipe down the blackboard. 

“Professor Tomlinson, would you mind leaving the drawing up for a little longer?” A student calls out to a chorus of agreement from a small group. “And I can do that, sir,” she adds, gesturing at the rag in his hands. While it isn’t customary for professors to clean the board themselves, Louis doesn’t generally mind.

“If you’re sure.” He brushes the dust off his hands as he walks over to the desk to collect his bag. “Thank you, dear.”

After stopping for a quick chat with one of his colleagues, he heads out. It’s past the hottest time of the day but still warm enough that Louis keeps to the shade on his walk back home.

Rounding the corner of the park, a short but melodic whistle reaches him. He turns in the direction of the sound on reflex, expecting a dog walker. Instead the whistler is revealed to be a familiar figure, one that he would recognise everywhere now, no matter the disguise—on this occasion a coachman, waiting by a carriage outside the council house.

“Kent, is it?” Louis greets him with a raised eyebrow, lips twitching.

“It’s Bennett, I’m afraid, sir,” Henry answers, flashing him a quick grin through a thick reddish beard as he tips his hat.

Louis bites back laughter. “What are you doing here?”

“Got some business to take care of—” Henry says with a subtle tilt of his head to the council house and a crooked grin. “But it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Be careful,” he whispers, and cannot help but reach out to touch his arm. 

“I always am.” Henry finds his fingers and gives them a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you in a few hours, angel.” 

As he continues on toward home, Louis glances back in time to catch sight of the man Henry will be driving as he lumbers down the stairs and out of the council house to the carriage.

Curious, Louis dawdles, stopping to pet a dog to make time. 

As the carriage zooms past, Henry gives him a fleeting, subtle nod. When the strange man peers out the window behind the curtain, Louis glimpses a glint of red in his eyes.

The fear that Henry might be hurt doing what he does never leaves him—he had gone off to fight different creatures and monsters half a dozen times in the last months. With no faith and a first hand knowledge of the dangers involved, and the fragility of human beings, all Louis can do is hope he stays safe.

He tries to keep his focus on the thought of greeting Henry when he returns that night—his blood hot, eager as ever. Dinner will come after.

He thinks about having Leigh-Anne and her sisters over for tea on Thursday, and going out to Bayberry Hall on the Saturday; Justice’s birthday in two weeks; and how Jessica has sent word she will be visiting in the autumn. 

His life, with Henry now. 

“You look happy.” Oli welcomes him when he gets home, taking his bag from him. “Had a good day?”

Louis smiles. “Yes.”

And hopefully there would be many more to come. Monsters and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from this quote from Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ : "Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin."
> 
> I haven't seen Van Helsing or Supernatural, but I still feel like I owe them a shoutout somehow.


End file.
